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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
AT LOS ANGELES 
































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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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http://www.archive.org/details/crimeofsylvestreOOfraniala 





1898 











YO|THE CRIME OF 
wel SYLVESTRE 


ee /BONNARD... 


BY 


GBA)}| ANATOLE FRANCE] 


ae 


ge | NEW YORK AND BOSTON 
X38) THOMAS Y. CROWELL AND 
S45 | COMPANY 

















136471 

















THE CRIME 


OF 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD 


(Member of the Institute) 


BY 


ANATOLE FRANCE 


TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH 


BY 


ARABELLA WARD 


NEW YORK: 46 East r4TH Srreer 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 
BOSTON: 1oo PurcHass Street 


CopyRIGHT, 1897, 
By T. Y. Crowgtt & Co. 


TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J, PETERS & SON, BOSTON. 


PRESSWORK BY ROCKWELL & CHURCHILL. 


7 





—— an 


rea. 
3.0.54 
CS6CESw 


CONTENTS. 


PART II. 


THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE — 


Ry PAIBYS eho as al eee ea tee sk eee 


apt. & MIS, FEMROIU Law 


’ ith 


























THE 
CRIME oF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 


THE LOG. 
December 24, 1849. 

I put on my slippers and my dressing-gown, and 
brushed away a tear which the north wind, blowing 
across the quay, had brought into my eyes. A 
bright fire was burning on the hearth in my study. 
Ice-crystals, in the form of fern-leaves, frosted the 
window-panes, hiding from me the Seine, its bridges, 

and the Louvre des Valois. 

_ eRe my arm-chair and writing-table before 
the fire, I took the place that Hamilcar deigned to 
leave me. Hamilcar, his nose between his paws, 
lay curled up on a feather cushion in front of the 
andirons. His thick, soft fur rose and fell with his. 
regular breathing. As I approached, he gently 
opened his dark eyes from between their half- 
closed lids, but almost instantly shut them again, 
as if saying to himself, “It is nothing; only my 
friend.” 

“ Hamilcar!” I exclaimed, as I stretched out my 
legs, “ Hamilcar, somnolent Prince, mighty Guard- 
ian of the City of Books! Like the Divine Cat 
that fought against the ungodly in Heliopolis dur- 
ing the night of the great combat, thou dost pre- 

I 


. 


2 THE CRIME OF 


serve from vile gnawing the books which this old 
student has purchased at the cost of his scant sav- 
ings and untiring patience! In this library, pro- 
tected by thy military genius, sleep, O Hamilcar, as 
softly as a sultana. For in thy person are united 
the formidable aspect of a Tartar warrior and the 
sensuous grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, 
thou brave and voluptuous Hamilcar, until the hour 
draws nigh when the mice begin their dance in the 
light of the moon, before the Acta Sanctorum of 
the learned Bollandists!” 

The beginning of this apostrophe must have 
pleased Hamilcar, for he accompanied it with a 
gurgle in his throat like the sound of a boiling 
kettle. But as my voice became louder, Hamilcar’s 
ears began to droop, the striped skin of his fore- 
head grew puckered, and this warned me that it 
was unbecoming in me thus to harangue. 

“ This old bookworm,” Hamilcar evidently mused, 
“makes idle speeches, whereas our housekeeper 
never utters a word that is not full of good sense 
and meaning, containing either the announcement 
of a meal or the promise of a whipping. Any one 
_ can understand what she says. But this old man 
strings together sounds that signify nothing.” 

Thus mused Hamilcar. Leaving him to his re- 
flections, I opened a book in which I became deeply 
interested. It was a catalogue of manuscripts. I 
know of no easier, more pleasing, or more fascinat- 
ing reading than that of a catalogue. The one that 
I was reading, published in 1824, by Mr. Thompson, 
librarian to Sir Thomas Raleigh, errs, it is true, by 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 3 


an excess of brevity, and fails to show that accuracy 
which the archzologists of my generation were the 
first to introduce into works of diplomatics and pale- 
ography. It leaves much to be desired and conjec- 
tured. This is perhaps why, in reading it, I feel a- 
sensation which in a more imaginative nature than 
mine might be called revery. 

I had given myself up to the gentle train of my 
thoughts, when my housekeeper, in a sullen tone, 
announced that Monsieur Coccoz wished to speak 
with me. ee 

In fact, some one had already slipped behind her 
into the library. It was a poor, puny, insignificant 
little fellow in a thin jacket. He approached me 
with a series of little bows and smiles. But he 
was very pale, and although still young and active, 
he seemed ill. As I looked at him, I thought of 
a wounded squirrel. Under his arm he carried a 
green case, which he placed on achair. Then, un- 
tying the four corners, he uncovered a pile of small 
yellow books. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “I have not the honor of 
being known to you. I am a book-agent, monsieur. 
I represent the leading houses of the capital, and in 
the hope that you will be good enough to honor me 
with your patronage, I take the liberty of offering 
you a few novelties.” 

Ye kind and just gods! Such novelties as the 
little Coccoz fellow showed me! The first volume 
he handed me was /’Histotre de la Tour de Nesle, 
with the love affairs of Marguérite of Bourgogne 
and Captain Buridan. 


4 THE CRIME OF 


“ This,” said he, smiling, “is a book that deals 
with true history.” 

“In that case,” I replied, “it must be very tire- 
some, for a history which keeps strictly to the truth 
~is extremely dull, I have written some such myself; — 
and if ever you should be unfortunate enough to 
offer one of them from door to door, you would run 
the risk of keeping it all your life in your green 
case, without ever finding a maid-servant sufficiently 
ill-advised to buy it of you.” 

“Certainly, monsieur,” replied the little fellow 
out of pure good nature. And, still smiling, he 
showed me the Amours d’Héloise et ad’ Abeilard ; 
but I made him understand that, at my age, I had 
no use for a love-story. Still smiling, he suggested 
the Regle des jeux de société : piquet, bésique, écarté, 
whist, dice, checkers, chess. 

“ Alas!” said I, “if you would have me remem-’ 
ber the rules of bésique, give me back my old friend 
Bignan, with whom I used to play cards every even- 
ing until the five Academies bore him solemnly to 
his grave; or bring down to the frivolous level of 
human amusements the grave intelligence of Ham- 
ilcar, whom you see sleeping on that cushion, and 
who at the present time is the sole companion of 
my evenings.” 

The little fellow’s smile became vague and fright- 
ened, 

“This,” said he, “is a new collection of society — 
diversions, jokes and puns, with directions for chan- 
ging a red rose to a white.” 

I told him that for a long time I had been put | 





SYLVESTRE BONNARD. ; 5 


out with white roses, and that as to the jokes, I was 
satisfied with those which I unconsciously allowed 
myself to make in the course of my scientific work. 

The little fellow offered me his last book with his 
last smile, saying, — 

“ Here is the Clef des Songes, with explanations 
of every possible dream, — the dream of gold, the 
dream of robbers, the dream of death, the dream of 
one’s falling from the top of a tower— the at is 
complete!” 

I had seized the tongs, and brandishing them in 
the air, I replied to my commercial visitor, — 

“Yes, my friend; but these dreams, as well as a 
thousand others, both joyous and tragic, are summed 
up in a single one, — the Dream of Life. Does your 
little yellow book give me the key to this?” 

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the little man; “the 
book is complete; and it is not dear, only one franc, 
twenty-five centimes, monsieur.” 

I called my housekeeper, for my lodgings are 
without a bell. 

“ Thérése,” said I, “ Monsieur Coccoz, whom I 
beg you to escort to the door, has a book which may 
be of interest to you. It is the‘ Key to Dreams.’ I 
shall be glad to buy it for you.” 

My housekeeper replied, — 

«“ Monsieur, if one has not the time to dream when 
awake, one has not the time to dream when asleep. 
Thank God! the days are enough for my work, and 
my work for the days; and I can say every evening, 
‘O Lord, bless the rest I am about to have!’ I 
dream neither awake nor asleep; and I do not mis- 


6 THE CRIME OF 


take my eider-down coverlet for a ghost either, as 
my cousin did. Moreover, if I may be allowed to 
give my opinion, we already have books enough 
here. Monsieur has thousands and thousands of 
them, which turn his head; and I have two, which 
are all I need, —my Catholic Prayer-book and my 
Cutsiniere Bourgeoise.” 

With these words, my housekeeper helped the lit- 
tle man to put his goods back again into his green 
case. 

Coccoz no longer smiled. His relaxed features 
wore such an expression of suffering that I was 
filled with remorse at having poked fun at so un- 
happy a creature. I called him back, and told him 
that I had caught a glimpse of a copy of /’//7stoire 
a’ Estelle et de Némorin, which he had; that I was 
very fond of shepherds and shepherdesses, and that 
for a reasonable sum I should be glad to buy the 
story of these two perfect lovers. 

“JT will let you have this book for one franc, 
twenty-five centimes, monsieur,” answered Coccoz, 
whose face now beamed with delight. “It is his- 
torical, and I am sure you will be pleased with it. 
I see now what you want. You are a connaisseur. 
To-morrow I will bring you the Crimes des Papes. 
It is a good book. I will bring you the édition-de- 
Zuxe with the colored plates.” 

I begged him to do nothing of the sort, and sent 
him away happy. When the peddler and his green 
case had vanished in the shadow of the hall, I asked 
my housekeeper from where the little man had 
dropped in upon us. 


- et 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 7 


“Dropped is the very word,” said she. “He 
dropped from the roof, monsieur, where he lives 
with his wife.” 

“ He has a wife you say, Thérése? That is mar 
vellous! Women certainly are strange creatures. 
This one must be a very unfortunate little woman.” 

“T really do not know what she is,” replied Thé- 
rése; “but every morning I see her trailing down 
the stairs in a silk gown that is covered with grease- 
spots. She makes eyes at people too. Now, how 
in all justice can such eyes and such dresses belong 
to a woman who is received out of charity? For, 
in consideration of the fact that the man is ill and 
the wife in a delicate condition, they have been 
allowed to occupy the attic while the roof is under- 
going repairs. The janitress said that the woman’s 
confinement began this very morning. They must 
have had great need of a child!” 

“ Thérése,” I replied, “they certainly had no need 
of one. But Nature willed that they should have), 
one, and they fell into her trap. Unusual ieah 
tion is necessary in order to foil the tricks of Na- 
ture. Let us pity rather than blame them! As to 
the silk dresses, there is not a young woman in the 
whole world who does not love them. The daugh- 
ters of Eve adore finery. You yourself, Thérése, 
who are serious and sensible, how you do scold i 
you have no white apron in which to wait at table! 
But tell me, have they all that they need in their 
attic?” 

“How could that be possible, monsieur?” an- 
swered the housekeeper. “The husband, whom you 


8 THE. CRIME OF 


have just seen, used to peddle jewels, so the jani- 
tress tells me, and no one knows why he gave up 
selling watches. You see he peddles almanacs now. 
This, in my opinion, is not an honest profession ; 
and I can never believe that God will bless any one 
who follows it. The woman, between you and me, 
seems unfitted for anything, a lazy good-for-nothing. 
I consider her as capable of bringing up a child as 
I should be of playing the guitar. No one knows 
from where they come, but I feel sure that they 
must have come by the coach of Poverty from the 
Land of Don’t-Care.” 

“Wherever they have come from, Thérése, they 
are wretched, and their attic is cold.” 

“Mercy! I should think it was! The roof has 
cracks in several places, and the rain pours in by 
the gutterful. They have neither furniture nor cloth- 
ing. Cabinet-makers and weavers seldom work, I 
think, for Christians of such a brotherhood.” 

“It is very sad, Thérése, that a Christian woman 
should be less well cared for than this pagan of an 
Hamilcar. What does the woman herself say?” 

«Monsieur, I never speak to people of that class, 
I have no idea what she says or what she sings. 
But she sings the whole day long. I hear her from 
the stairs whenever I go in and out.” 

“Well! the heir of this Coccoz family can say, 
like the egg in the village riddle, ‘ My mother 
brought me into the world while singing.’ <A simi- 
lar thing happened in the case of Henry IV. When 
Jeanne d’Albret was about to be confined, she began 
to sing an old Béarnaise canticle : — 


we a 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 9 


‘Our Lady from the end of the bridge, 
May this hour bring me joy! 

Raise now thy prayer, 

That God may hear, 

And send to mea boy! 


It is unreasonable, on the face of it, to bring poor 
little wretches into the world. - But it happens every 
day, my poor Thérése, and all the philosophers in 

the world cannot reform the foolish custom. Ma- 
dame Coccoz has followed it, and sings. That is 
good, at least! But tell me, Thérése, have you not 
set the pot to boil to-day?” 

“ Yes, monsieur, and it is about time for me to go 
and skim it.” 

“Very good! but do not fail, Thérése, to carry a 
good bowl of soup to Madame Coccoz, our neighbor 
up-stairs.” 

My housekeeper was about to leave the room, 
when I added, — 

“ Thérése, first of all, be good enough to call your 
friend thg porter, and tell him to look about our 
-woodhouse for an armful of wood for this Coccoz 
family. Above all, see that he does not fail to put 
in the pile a big log, a regular yule log, As to the 
little man, I beg you, in case he returns, to show 
him politely to the door, him and all his yellow 
books.” 

Having taken these measures, with the selfishness . 

1 Notre-Dame du bout du pont, 
Venez & mon aide en cette heure! 
Priez le Dieu du ciel, 

Qu’il me délivre vite, 
Qu’ il me donne un garcon! 


10 THE CRIME OF 


of a confirmed bachelor, I turned again to my cata- 
logue. 

With what surprise, pleasure, and pain, I came 
upon the following words, which even now I cannot 
copy with a firm hand : — 


“THE GOLDEN LEGEND” BY JACQUES DE GENES 
(JACQUES DE VORAGINE). 


Translated into French. Small quarto. 


This manuscript of the fourteenth century contains, 
besides the more or less complete translation of the cele- 
brated works of Jacques de Voragine, 1. The Legends 
of Saints Ferréol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent, and 
Droctoveus ; 2. A poem on “ The Miraculous Burial of 
Monsieur Saint-Germain of Auxerre.” The translation, 
the legends and the poem, are due to the clerk Alex- 
ander. The manuscript is on vellum. It contains a 
large number of illuminated initials, and two beautifully 
painted miniatures in a poor state of preservation. One 
represents the Purification of the Virgin, the other the 
Crowning of Proserpine. 


What a discovery! The perspiration came out 
on my forehead, a mist swam before my eyes. I 
trembled, I flushed, feeling that I must shout, yet 
unable to utter a word. 

What a treasure! For forty years I had been. 
studying the history of Christian Gaul, especially 
the wonderful Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, 
whence came the king-monks who founded our 
national dynasty. But in spite of the culpable in- 
sufficiency of the description, it was evident to me 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. II 


that the manuscript of the clerk Alexander must 
have come from the great abbey. Everything 
proved it. All the legends added by the translator 
related to the pious founding of the abbey by King 
Childebert. The legend of Saint Droctoveus was 
especially significant, for it was~that of the first 
abbot of my dear abbey. The poem in French 
verse on the burial of Saint-Germain took me into 
the very nave of the venerable basilica, which was 
the centre of Christian Gaul. 

“The Golden Legend ” is in itself a vast and 
graceful work. Jacques de Voragine, Assistant of 
the Order of Saint Dominic and Archbishop of 
Genoa, collected in the thirteenth century all the | 
legends of Catholic saints, and made a volume of | 
such richness, that from the monasteries and cha- 
teaux there came the cry, “It is the Golden Le- 
gend!” “The Golden Legend” was particularly 
rich in Roman hagiography. Edited by an Italian 
monk, it was especially good in its treatment of the 
earthly domains of Saint Peter. Voragine sees the 
greatest saints of the Occident only through a cold 
mist. Therefore the Aquitanian and Saxon trans- 
lators of this good legendary were careful to add to 
his account the lives of their own national saints. 

I have read and collated many manuscripts of 
“The Golden Legend.” I know those described 
by my learned colleague, Monsieur Paulin Paris, 
in his beautiful catalogue of the manuscripts of 
the Royal Library. Of these, two in particular 
held my attention. One is of the fourteenth cen- 
tury, and contains a translation of Jean Belet; the 


I2 LHE CRIME OF 


other, younger by a century, includes the version 
of Jacques Vignay. Both came from the Colbcrt 
collection, and were placed on the shelves of that 
glorious Colbertine library through the energy of 
the librarian Baluze,. whose name I never utter 
without baring my head; for even in the cen- 
tury of the giants of learning, Baluze astonishes 
every one by his greatness. I know a very curi- 
ous codex of the Bigot collection. I know seventy- 
four printed editions, beginning with the venerable 
ancestor of all, the Gothic of Strasbourg, com- 
menced in 1471, and finished in 1475. 

But not one of these manuscripts, not one of 
these editions, contains the legends of Saints Fer- 
réol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent, and Droctoveus, 
not one bears the name of the clerk Alexander, not 
one, in short, comes from the Abbey of Saint-Ger- 
main-des-Prés. Compared with the manuscript de- 
scribed by Mr. Thompson, they are as straw to gold. 
I have seen with my own eyes, I have touched with 
my own fingers, an indisputable proof of the exis- 
tence of this document. But the document itself ? 


_ What has become of it? Sir Thomas Raleigh 


spent his last days on the shores of Lake Como, 
whither he carried a part of his vast treasures. 
What became of them, then, after the death of 
that elegant collector of curios? Where could the 
manuscripts of the clerk Alexander have gone? 
“And why,” I ask myself, “why have I learned 
of the existence of this precious volume, if I am 
never to possess it, never even to see it? If I knew 
that it were there, I would seek it in the burning 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 13 


heart of Africa or among the ice regions of the 
Pole. But I do not know where it is. I know not 
if it is guarded by some jealous bibliomaniac in an 
iron safe, beneath a triple lock, or if it lies moulder- 
ing in the garret of some ignorant person. I shudder 
when I think that perhaps its pages have been torn 
out to cover the gherkin-jars of some housekeeper.” 


August 30, 1850. 

The heat was so oppressive that I was obliged 
to walk slowly. I strolled along, close to the walls 
of the northern quay; and in the sultry twilight 
the shops of dealers in old books, prints, and an- 
tique furniture attracted my eyes and my fancy. . 
Rummaging among them as I idled along, I en+ 
joyed a finely turned verse by a poet of the Pleiad,~ 
' | looked through an elegant “ Masquerade” by Wat- 
teau, I weighed with my eye a two-handled sword, 
a steel gorget, a marion. What a thick helmet! 
What a heavy breastplate, Lord! The covering of 
agiant? No; the carapace of an insect. Themen 
of those days were armed like beetles, their weak- 
ness was within. Now, on the contrary, our strength 
is within. Our armed souls dwell in weak bodies. 

Here is a pastel of a lady of the oldentime. The 
face, faint as a shadow, is smiling. One hand, cov- 
ered with an open-worked mitt, holds upon her satin 
gown a lap-dog with a ribbon about his neck. The 
picture fills me with a sweet melancholy. Let those 
who have in their hearts no half-obliterated pastel 
make fun of me! 


14 THE CRIME OF 


Like the horse that scents the stable, I hasten my 
steps as I near my lodgings. Here it is, the human 
hive where I have my cell, in which I distil the 
somewhat bitter honey of learning. With a heavy 
step I mount the stairs. A few feet more and | 
shall be at my door. But I imagine rather than 
see a gown descending, with the sound of rustling 
silk. I pause, and draw back against the railing. 
The woman who passes is bareheaded, she is young, 
she is singing. Her eyes and her teeth gleam in the 
shadow, for she has laughing eyes and a laughing 
mouth. She is certainly a neighbor, and one who 
knows us well. In her arms she holds a pretty 
child, a little boy, quite naked, like the son of a 
goddess. About his neck is a medal attached to 
a little silver chain. I watch him as he sucks his 
thumbs, staring at me with his great eyes, and gaz- 
ing upon this old world, as yet so new to him. At 
the same time the mother looks at me in a sly, mys- 
terious way. Then she stops, blushes slightly, I 
think, and holds out the little creature to me. The 
baby has a pretty dimple between his wrist and his 
arm, another in his neck, and everywhere, from his 
head to his feet, others laugh in his rosy flesh. 

The mother shows him to me with pride. 

“ Monsieur,” she says, “my little boy is very 
pretty; don’t you think so?” 

She takes his hand, places it on his lips, and 
holds out his dear little rosy fingers towards me. 

“ Baby, throw a kiss to the gentleman,” she says. 

Then, folding the little creature in her arms, she 
glides away with the swiftness of a cat, and dis- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 15 


appears down a hallway, which, judging from its 
odor, leads to a kitchen. 

I enter my own rooms. 

“ Thérése, who is the young mother whom I saw 
bareheaded on the stairs with her pretty little boy?” 

Thérése replies that it is Madame Coccoz. I 
stare at the ceiling, as if to find there some further 
explanation. Thérése recalls to my mind the poor 
peddler who a year ago came to sell me almanacs 
while his wife was ill. 

“ And what of Coccoz?” I asked. 

The reply was that I would never see him again. 
The poor fellow had been laid away under ground 
without my knowledge, and, indeed, without the 
knowledge of many, a short time after the recovery 
of Madame Coccoz. I learned that his wife had 
become consoled. I followed her example. 

« But, Thérése,” I asked, “has Madame Coccoz 
all she needs in her attic?” 

“ You will be very stupid, monsieur,” replied my 
housekeeper, “if you give a thought to that woman. 
They notified her to leave the attic when the roof 
was repaired. But she is still there, in spite of the 
proprietor, the agent, the janitress, and the bailiff. 
I believe she has bewitched them all. She will 
leave the attic, monsieur, when she pleases, but 
she will leave it in her own carriage! Mark my 
words!” 

Thérése reflected a moment, then she made this 
remark, — 

«“ A pretty face is a curse from Heaven!” 

«] should thank Heaven, then, for having spared 


~~ *. 


16 THE CRIME OF 


me that curse. But take my hat and cane. I am 
going to read a few pages of Moréri for recreation. 
If my old fox scent tells me true, we are going to 
have a delicately flavored pullet for dinner. Attend 
to this estimable fowl, my good woman, and spare 
your neighbors, so that they may spare you and 
your old master.” 

So saying, I set about to study the gnarled 
branches of a princely genealogy. 


May 7, 1851. 


I have spent the winter in a manner most pleas- 
ing to sages, 7 angello cum libello; and now the 
swallows of the quay Malaquais find me, on their 
return, almost as when they left me. He who lives 
little, changes little, and using up one’s days poring 
over ancient texts is scarcely living at all. 

And yet to-day I feel myself a little more than 
ever imbued with that vague sadness that life gives 
out. My intellectual harmony (I scarcely dare ac- 
knowledge it to myself) has been troubled ever 
since that momentous hour when the existence of 
the clerk Alexander’s manuscript was revealed to 
me. It seems strange that for a few pages of old 
parchment I should have lost sleep, but such is the 
truth. The poor man without desires possesses the. 
greatest of all treasures, —he is master of himself. 
The rich man who has a desire is but a wretched 
slave. I am that slave. The sweetest pleasures, 
that of conversing with a man of an acute, bright 
mind, or dining with a friend, cannot make me for- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 17 


get the manuscript which I have wanted ever since 
I knew of its existence. I want it by day and by 
night. 1 want it in joy and in sorrow. I want it 
when I work, and I want it when I rest. 

I recall to mind the desires of my childhood. 
How clearly I understand to-day all the intense 
wishes of those early years! I can still see with 
wonderful vividness a doll, which, when I was eight 
years old, was displayed in the window of a wretched 
little shop in the rue de Seine. Why that doll 
pleased me I have no idea. I was very proud of 
being a boy. I despised little girls, and I looked 
forward with impatience to the time (alas, it has 
come!) when a prickly white beard would bristle on 
my chin. I played soldier, and in order to obtain 
food for my hobby-horse I made ravages among the 
plants that my long-suffering mother tried to culti- 
vate on the window-ledge. That was certainly a 
manly amusement. And yet I longed for a doll! 

A Hercules has his weakness. Was the object 
of my love beautiful? No. I can see her now. 
She had a dab of vermilion on either cheek, short, 
flabby arms, horrible wooden hands, and _ long, 
shapeless legs. Her flowered skirt was fastened 
at the waist by two pins. I can still see the 
black heads of those two pins. She was a low-class 
doll, smelling of the fausourg. I well remember, 
little boy that I was and not yet in trousers, that 
I felt in my own way and very strongly, that this 
doll lacked grace and style. She was coarse and 
vulgar. Nevertheless, I loved her, in spite of her 
faults. I loved her for them. I loved her alone, 


18 THE CRIME OF 


and I wanted her. My soldiers and my drums 
were no longer of any account. I had stopped 
putting into my hobby-horse’s mouth stems of he- 
liotrope and speedwell. That doll was everything 
to me. I planned schemes worthy of a savage, 
in order that my nurse Virginie might be obliged 
to take me by the little shop in the rue de Seine. 
I would flatten my nose against the window until 
my nurse had to take hold of my arm and drag 
me away. ‘Monsieur Sylvestre, it is late, and your 
mamma will scold you.” Monsieur Sylvestre cared 
’ nothing in those days for the threatened scoldings 
and whippings. But his nurse raised him in her 
arms as if he were a feather, and Monsieur Sylvestre 
yielded to force. In after years, as he grew older, 
he became degenerate, and now yields to fear. But 
then he was afraid of nothing. 

I was wretched. An inconsiderate but irresistible 
shame kept me from telling my mother of the object 
of my love. Hence my sufferings. For days that 
doll, constantly in my mind, danced before my eyes, 
and gazed fixedly at me, and opened her arms to 
me, assuming, in my imagination, a sort of life that 
made her seem strange and terrible to me, and much 
dearer and more to be coveted. 

Finally, one day, a day I shall never forget, my 
nurse took me to see my uncle, Captain Victor, who 
had asked me to breakfast. I felt a deep admira- 
tion for my uncle, the Captain, as much from the 
fact of his having fired the last French cartridge at 
Waterloo, as because with his own hands, at my 
mother’s table, he used to make cro#tons rubbed. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 19 


in garlic, which he then put into the chicory salad. 
I thought that was very fine. 

My uncle Victor also filled me with great respect 
on account of his frogged coats, and especially on 
account of the way he had of turning the house 
topsy-turvy the moment he entered it. Even to-day 
I do not understand how he did it; but whenever 
my uncle Victor was in a company of twenty per- 
sons, he was the only one seen and heard. My good 
father, I believe, did not share my great admiration 
for my uncle Victor, who troubled him by his smok- 
ing, gave him friendly although hearty slaps on his 
back, and accused him of lack of energy. My 
mother, while she felt for the Captain all a sister’s 
indulgence, sometimes asked him to pay less atten- 
tion to the brandy bottle. But I had no part in 
these feelings of dislike, or in the reproaches that 
were heaped upon him. My uncle Victor inspired 
me with the greatest enthusiasm. 

Therefore I entered his small lodgings in the rue 
Guénégaud with a feeling of pride. The entire 
breakfast, served on a round table in a corner of 
the fireplace, consisted of pork and sweets. The 
Captain filled me with cake and pure wine. He told 
me of countless acts of injustice of which he had 
been the victim. He. complained especially of the 
Bourbons; and as he neglected to tell me who the 
Bourbons were, I somehow imagined that they were 
horse-dealers at Waterloo. The Captain, who inter- 
rupted himself only: to fill our glasses, furthermore 
accused a number of young men, jeanfesses and 
good-for-nothings, whom I did not know at all, but 


20 THE CRIME OF 


whom I hated with my whole heart. At dessert I 
thought that I heard the Captain say that my 
father was a man whom one could twist round 
one’s little finger, but I am not sure that I under- 
stood him. My ears were ringing, and it seemed 
to me that the table was dancing. My uncle put 
on his frogged coat, took his hat, and we went 
out into the street, which seemed to me to have 
undergone a wonderful transformation. 

I felt as if a long time had elapsed since I had 
been there. But when we came to the rue de 
Seine, the thought of my doll came back to my 
mind, and threw me into a wonderful state of exal- 
tation. My head was on fire. I resolved to try a 
bold stroke. We were passing in front of the 
shop. There she was behind the glass, with her 
red cheeks, her flowered skirt, and her shapeless 
legs. : 
“Uncle,” said I with an effort, “ will you buy me 
that doll?” 

Then I waited. 

“ Buy a doll for a boy! Damnation!” cried my 
uncle in a voice of thunder. Do you want to dis- 
grace yourself? So, itis that Zargo¢ that you want, 
is it? I congratulate you, my little fellow. If you 
grow up with such tastes you will never have any 
fun at all in life, and your friends will call you a 
precious ninny. If you asked me for a sword or a 
gun, I would buy it for you, my boy, with the last 
silver crown of my pension. But buy you a doll! 
A thousand devils! To disgrace you! Never in the 
world! If ever I catch you playing with such a 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 21 


decked-out piece of finery as that, I tell you what, 
monsieur, son of my sister as you are, I'll never again 
own you for my nephew.” 

At these words my heart swelled so, that pride 
alone, a diabolic pride, kept me from crying. 

My uncle, suddenly growing calm, returned to his 
ideas about the Bourbons. But J, still under the 
lash of his indignation, felt an unspeakable shame. 
My resolve was soon made. I inwardly swore that 
I would never disgrace myself. I firmly and for- 
ever gave up the red-cheeked doll. That day I felt 
for the first time the cruel sweetness of sacrifice. 

Captain, although it is true that in your life you 
swore like a heathen, smoked like a beadle, and 
drank like a bell-ringer, nevertheless may your mem- 
ory be honored, not merely because you were a 
brave soldier, but also because you showed your 
nephew, while he still wore short skirts, the senti- 
ment of heroism! Pride and laziness made you 
almost unbearable, O uncle Victor! but a great 
heart beat beneath the frogs of your coat. - 

I remember you always wore a rose in your button- 
hole. That flower which, as I now believe, you 
let the shop-girls pluck for you, that open-hearted 
flower which shed its petals on every breeze, was 
the symbol of your glorious youth. You scorned 
neither absinthe nor tobacco, but you despised life. 
Neither common-sense nor refinement could be ac- 
quired from you, Captain; but you taught me, at an 
age when my nurse still looked after me, a lesson 
of honor and self-sacrifice which I shall never forget. 
You have been sleeping now a long time in the 


22 THE CRIME OF 


cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, beneath a humble slab 
which bears this epitaph: 


HERE LIES 
ARISTIDE-VICTOR MALDENT. 
CAPTAIN OF INFANTRY, 
CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


But, Captain, the inscription which you intended 
for your old bones, so long knocked about on bat- 
tlefields and in haunts of pleasure, is not there. 
Among your papers we found this proud and bitter 
epitaph, which, in spite of your last wish, we dared 
not place on your tomb : — 


HERE LIES 
A BRIGAND OF THE LOIRE. 


“ Thérése, to-morrow let us place a wreath of 
immortelles on the tomb of the Brigand of the 
Loire.” 

But Thérése is not here. And how could she be 
near me on the “greeting ” of the Champs-Elysées? 
Beyond, at the end of the avenue, the Arc de Tri- 
omphe lifts its huge portal against the sky, bearing 
beneath its vault the names of my uncle Victor’s 
comrades-in-arms. Under the spring sunshine the 
trees along the avenue are unfolding their first 
leaves, still pale and tender. At my side the open 
carriages roll along to the Bois de Boulogne. 

Unconsciously I have wandered into this fashion: 
able avenue, and stop mechanically before an open 
booth filled with gingerbread and jars of liquorice- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 23 


water, with lemons for stoppers. A poor little ur- 
chin, clad in rags through which his chapped skin 
can be seen, stands with wide-opened eyes before the 
luxuries which are not for him. He shows his long- 
ing with the shamelessness of innocence. His round 
eyes stare fixedly at a tall man made out of ginger- 
bread. He isa general, and bears some resemblance 
to my uncle Victor. I take him, pay for him, and 
hold him out to the little fellow, who scarcely dares 
to raise his hand, for from early experience he does 
not believe in good luck. He gazes at me with a 
look such as we see in the eyes of a big dog, and which 
seems to say, “ You are cruel to make fun of me.” 

“Come, little simpleton,” I say to him in the 
gruff tone which is habitual with me, “take it, take 
it, and eat it, for you are more fortunate than I was 
at your age, and can satisfy your wishes without 
disgracing yourself.” ... 

And you, uncle Victor, now that this gingerbread 
general brings back to my mind your manly figure, 
come, glorious Shade that you are, and make me 
forget my new doll. We are forever children, 
always running after new toys. 


The same day. 


In the strangest possible way the Coccoz family 
has become associated in my mind with the clerk 
Alexander. 

«“ Thérése,” said I, as I threw myself into my 
easy-chair, “tell me if the little Coccoz is well, and 
if he has cut his first teeth yet, and give me m 


slippers.” 


24 THE CRIME OF 


“He ought to have them, monsieur,” replied 
Thérése; “but I have notseenthem. The first fine 
day of spring the mother disappeared with the child, 
leaving behind her furniture and clothes. Thirty- 
eight empty pomatum jars were found in the attic. 
It is beyond belief. Latterly she began to receive 
visitors, and you may be sure she has not entered 
a convent. The janitress’s niece said that she saw 
her in an open carriage on the boulevards. I was 
right when I told you that she would come to a bad 
end.” 

“ Thérése,” I replied, “this young woman has 
come neither to a bad nor a good end. Wait until 
her life is over before you judge her. And be care- 
ful not to gossip too much with the janitress. Ma- 
dame Coccoz, of whom I caught a glimpse once on 
the stairs, seemed to me to be very fond of her child. 
This love should count for much in her favor.” 

«“ Oh, as to that, monsieur, the child lacked noth- 
ing. There could not be found another in the whole 
quarter that was better kept, better nourished, or 


more petted. Every day she put a white bib on 


him, and from morning till night she sang him songs 
that made him laugh.” 

«“ Thérése, a poet has said, ‘ The child on whom 
his mother has not smiled, is worthy neither of the 
table of the gods nor of the couch of the god- 
desses.’” 


July 8, 1852. 
Having heard that they were relaying the pave- 
ment in the Chapel of the Virgin at Saint-Germain- 


: 
vr 3 
NC a 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 25 


des-Prés, I went to the church in hopes of finding 
some inscriptions brought to light by the workmen. 
My hopes were not deceived. The architect kindly 
showed me a stone which he had just raised against 
the wall. I knelt down in order that I might see 
the words cut on the stone; and in a low tone, in the 
shadow of the ancient apse, I read these words, 
which made my heart leap: — 


HERE LIES ALEXANDER, 
MONK OF THIS CHURCH, 

WHO HAD THE CHIN OF SAINT VINCENT AND 
SAINT AMANT AND THE FOOT OF THE 
INNOCENTS ENCLOSED IN SILVER. 

IN HIS LIFETIME HE WAS EVER GOOD AND WORTHY. 
PRAY FOR HIS SOuL.! 


With my handkerchief I gently brushed away 
the dust which covered that mortuary stone. I could 
have kissed it. 

“Itis he! It is Alexander!” I cried; and from 
the vault of the church the name fell back upon me 
with a noise as if broken. 

The grave, solemn face of the beadle, whom I saw 
coming towards me, made me ashamed of my enthu- 
siasm ; and I slipped away in spite of the two rival 
church mice that would have made the sign of the 
cross on me with holy water. 


«1 Cy-gist Alexandre, moyne de cette église, qui fist mettre en 
argent le menton de saint Vincent et de saint Amant, et le pit des 
Innocens ; qui toujours en son vivant fut preud* homme et vayllant. 
Priez pour l’ame de luj. 


26 THE CRIME OF 


However, it was certainly my Alexander! There 
was no longer any doubt of it. The translator of 
“The Golden Legend,” the author of the lives of 
Saint Germain, Saint Vincent, Saint Ferréol, Saint 
Ferrution, and Saint Droctoveus was, as I had sup- 
posed, a monk of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And 
what a good, pious, and generous monk too! He 
had a silver chin made, a silver head, and a silver 
foot, in order that precious remains might be cov- 
ered with an imperishable envelope. But am I 
never to know his work, or is the new discovery 
merely to augment my longing? 


August 20, 1859. 

“J, who please some and who try all men, the joy 
of the good and the terror of the wicked, I, who make 
and unfold error, I take it upon myself to stretch 
my wings. Do not take offence if in my rapid flight 
I slide over years.” 

Who speaks thus? It is an old man whom I know 
only too well. It is Time. 

Shakespeare, after having finished the third act 
of the “ Winter’s Tale,” pauses, in order to give 
Perdita time to grow in wisdom and in beauty; and 
when he raises the curtain once more he evokes 
the ancient scythe-bearer to give an account to the 
spectators of the long days that have weighed down 
upon the head of the jealous Leontes. 

Like Shakespeare in his comedy, I have left in 
this diary a long interval which I have passed over 
in silence; and, in the manner of the poet, I will 
summon Time to explain the silence of ten years. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 27 


For ten years I have written not one line in this 
journal; and now that I take up my pen again, 1 
have no Perdita, alas! to describe as having “ grown 
in grace.” Youth and beauty are the faithful com- 
panions of the poets. But the charming phantoms 
visit the rest of us not even for the space of a season. 
We know not how to keep them. If, by some curious 
caprice, the shade of some Perdita should plan to 
enter my brain, she would be horribly bruised there 
against the piles of dried parchment. Happy poets! 
whose white locks do not frighten away the waver- 
ing shades of Helens, Francescas, Juliets, Julias, 
and Dorotheas! And Sylvestre Bonnard’s nose 
alone would put to flight the entire swarm of Love’s 
famous heroines! 

Yet I, like many another, have known beauty; I 
have felt the mysterious charm which Nature, in- 
comprehensible in itself, has given to animate forms. 
A living clay has made me tremble like the lover 
and the poet. But I have known neither how to 
love nor how to sing. Within my heart, hidden 
beneath a pile of ancient texts and old inscriptions, I 
can see again, like a miniature in an attic, a bright 
face with two violet eyes. 

“Bonnard, my friend, you are an old imbecile! 
Read this catalogue, which was sent you this very 
morning by a Florentine bookseller. It is a cata- 
logue of manuscripts, and promises a description of 
several noted ones, preserved by collectors in Italy 
and Sicily. This is what is suited to you; this is 
what is in keeping with your appearance.” 

I read; suddenly I give a cry. Hamilcar, who, 


28 THE CRIME OF 


with age, has assumed a seriousness that frightens 
me, looks at me reproachfully, as if to ask if there 
is such a thing as peace in this world, since he can- 
not have it near me, who am old like himself. 

In the joy of my discovery I need a confidant, 
and I turn to the sceptic Hamilcar with the impul- 
siveness of a happy man. 

“ No, Hamilcar, no,” I say; “rest does not belong 
to this world, and the calm for which you long is 
incompatible with the work of life. But who says 
that we are old? Listen to what I read from this 
catalogue, and then tell me if this is a time to rest : — 


“THE GOLDEN LEGEND” OF JACQUES DE VORAGINE. 


Translated into French in the fourteenth century by the 
clerk Alexander. 


_ A superb manuscript, ornamented with two miniatures 
marvellously painted, and in a perfect state of preserva- 
tion, one representing the Purification of the Virgin, the 
other the Crowning of Proserpine. 

Appended to “ The Golden Legend” are the legends 
of Saints Ferréol, Ferrution, Germain, and Droctoveus. 
xxvii] pages, and the “ Miraculous Burial of Monsieur 
Saint Germain d’Auxerre,” xij pages. 

This valuable manuscript, which formed part of the 
collection of Sir Thomas Raleigh, is at present preserved 
in the collection of Monsieur Micael-Angelo Polizzi of 
Girgenti. 


“Do you hear, Hamilcar? The manuscript of 
the clerk Alexander is in Sicily, in the home of 
Micael-Angelo Polizzi. If only this man is fond 
of scholars! I must write to him.” 


at 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. me. 


I did so without delay. In the letter I begged 
Signor Polizzi to allow me to see the clerk Alex- 
ander’s manuscript, stating on what grounds I ven- 
tured to believe myself worthy of such a favor. At 
the same time I put at his disposition several unpub- 
lished texts in my possession, which were of no 
small value. I begged him to favor me with an 
early reply, and beneath my name I wrote all my 
honorary titles. - 

“Monsieur! monsieur! Where are you going 
like that?” cried Thérése in fright, as she ran 
down the stairs after me, four steps at a time, my 
hat in her hand. 

“TI am going to post a letter, Thérése.” 

“Good Lord! The idea of rushing out that way, 
bare-headed, like a crazy man!” 

“I am crazy, Thérése. But who is not? : Give 
me my hat, quick.” 

“And your gloves, monsieur! and your um- 
brella!” 

I had reached the foot of the stairs, but I still 
heard her calling and expostulating. 


October 10, 1859. 

I awaited Signor Polizzi’s reply with ill-concealed 
impatience. I could not keep still. I grew ner- 
vous, I would open and close my books. One day 
I knocked down a volume of J/oréri with my elbow. 
Hamilcar, who was washing himself, stopped sud- 
denly, his paw behind his ear, and looked angrily at 
me. Had he any reason to expect such a tempestu- 
ous existence under my roof? Had we not tacitly 


” te 
(= 
tee oe 
s 


ae ~~ 


oa THE CRIME OF 


agreed to lead a peaceful life? I had broken our 
compact. 

“« My poor friend,” said I, “I am the victim of a 
violent passion, that agitates and completely over- 
masters me. Passion is the enemy of peace, I ad- 
mit, but without it there would be neither industry 
nor art in this world. Every one would sleep uncov- 
ered on a dunghill, and you could not lie all day long, 
Hamilcar, on a silken cushion in the City of Books.” 

I explained no more to Hamilcar regarding the 
theory of passion, because my housekeeper brought 
in a letter. It bore the postmark of Naples, and 
ran as follows: . 


Most Illustrious Signor, — 

L have indeed in my possession the incomparable manu- 
script of “ The Golden Legend,” which has not escaped 
your close attention. All-important reasons, however, ab- 
solutely and tyrannically prevent my parting with it for a 
single day, a single instant. Jt would be a pleasure and 
an honor to show it to you in my humble home at Girgenti, 
which would be embellished and illuminated by your pres- 
ence. So, in the impatient hope of greeting you, Lf dare to 
sign myself, Signor Academician, your humble and devoted 
servant, MICAEL-ANGELO POLIzzI. 

Dealer in Wines, and Archaeologist at Girgenti (Sicily). 


Very well! I will go to Sicily. 
“ Extremum hunc, Arethusa, mihi concede labo- 
rem.” 
October 25, 1859. 


My resolve taken and my arrangements com- 
_ pleted, nothing remained but to notify my house- 


tf 


’ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. + gt 


keeper. I must confess that I hesitated a long 
time before telling her of my proposed departure. 
I was afraid of her remonstrances, her teasing, her 
prayers, and her tears. “She is a good girl,” I 
said to myself, “and she is attached to me. She 
will want to prevent my going; and God knows that 
when she wants anything, words, gestures, and cries 
are nothing to her. In the present instance she will 
call to her aid the janitress, the floor-polisher, the 
mattress-maker, and the seven sons of the fruit- 
dealer. They will all fall on their knees in a cir- 
cle at my feet. They will weep, and they will look 
so homely that I shall have to give in so as not to 
see them any more.” 

Such were the frightful visions, the hallucinations, 
that fear brought before my imagination. Yes, fear, 
“fruitful fear,” as the poet says, engendered these 
monstrous ideas in my brain. For, in this private 
diary, I will confess that I am afraid of my house- 
keeper. I know that she realizes how weak I am, 
and in my struggles with her this fact takes away 
all my courage. These struggles occur frequently, 
and I invariably give in. But I had to announce 
my departure to Thérése. She came into the li- 
brary with an armful of wood to make a little fire, 
~“a flame,” she said, for the mornings are sharp. I 
watched her out of the corner of my eye as she bent 
down, her head under the hood of the fireplace. I 
have no idea where my courage came from, but 
I did not hesitate a moment. I rose and began pa- 
cing up and down the room. . 

“ By the way,” said I in a careless tone, with 4 


32 THE CRIME OF 


that swaggering manner which is characteristic of 
cowards, “by the way, Thérése, I am going to 
Sicily.” 

Having spoken, I waited, extremely anxious. Thé- 
rése made no reply. Her head and her huge cap 
remained buried in the fireplace, and I saw nothing 
in her appearance that betrayed the slightest emo- 
tion. She was stuffing some paper under the logs, 
and was kindling the fire. That was all. 

At length I saw her face again. It was calm, so 
calm that I grew angry. 

“ Really,” I thought, “this old maid has no heart. 
She lets me go away without even saying‘ Ah!’ Is 
the absence of her old master of such small account 
to her?” 

“ Well, monsieur,” she said at last, “go; but be 
back by six o’clock. We have a dish for dinner 
to-day that cannot be kept waiting.” 


Napwes, November 10, 1859. 

“Co tra calle vive, magne e lave a faccia.” 

I understand, my friend. For three centimes I 
can drink, eat, and wash my face, all by means of 
one of these slices of watermelon which you display 
on a little table. But Occidental prejudices would 
prevent my honestly relishing this simple pleasure. 
How could I suck the watermelon? It is all I can 
do to keep my footing in this crowd. How brilliant 
and noisy the night is in the Strada di Porto! The 
fruit is piled up like mountains in the shops that are 
bright with multi-colored lanterns. On the stoves, 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 33 


burning in the open air, the water boils in the ket- 
tles, and the frying things sing away in the pans. 
The odor of fried fish and hot meats tickles my 
nose, and makes me sneeze. At this point I find 
that my handkerchief has vanished from my coat 
pocket. I am pushed, turned about, and literally 
carried off my feet, by the gayest, the most reckless, 
the liveliest, and the nimblest people that can be 
imagined. Suddenly a young woman, whose mag-— 
nificent black hair I am admiring, sends me flying, 
with a shove of her powerful and elastic shoulder, 
three steps backward, without hurting me, into the 
arms of a macaroni-eater, who welcomes me with a 
smile. 

I am in Naples. How I arrived here with the few 
battered and mutilated remnants of my luggage, I 
cannot tell, for the simple reason that I do not 
know. I made my journey in a constant state of ter- 
ror; and I know that in this brilliant city I looked, 
a while ago, just like an owl in the sunshine. To- 
night it is much worse! Wishing to study the hab- 
its of the people, I came into the Strada di Porto, 
where I am now. About me, animated groups 
are crowding before the eating-shops; and I float 
like a wreck at the mercy of these living waves, 
which, even as they carry one down, caress one 
still. For there is something indescribably sweet 
and gentle in the vivacity of these Neapolitans. 
I am not rudely jostled. I am rocked; and I 
think that by swaying me back and forth, these 
people want me to fall asleep while 1 am standing 
here. 


34 THE CRIME OF 


As I make my way along the lava pavement of the 
strada, I cannot but admire the street porters and 
the fishermen who pass by, talking, singing, smok- 
ing, gesticulating, quarrelling and making up with 
wonderful rapidity. They live in all their senses at 
once, wise without knowing it, gauging their ambi- 
tion by the shortness of life. I approach a well- 
frequented wine-shop, and read on the door this 
quatrain, in the patois of Naples :— 


Amice, alliegre magnammo e bevimmo, 
Nfui chen "ce. stace noglio a la lucerna; 
CASAS AN? Srutro munno nee vedimmo ? 
Chi sa sal’ autro munno nee taver na? 


Come, Friends, let us merrily eat and drink, 
As long as the lamp burns bright; 

Who knows if we'll meet in the world to come, 
Or if taverns are kept in the Realms of Light? 


Horace gave similar counsels to his friends. You 
accepted them, Postumus; you heard them, Leuco- 
noé, rebellious beauty, with your craving to know the 
secrets of the future; that future is now the past, 
and we know it. In truth, you were very wrong to 
trouble yourself for so little; and your lover showed 
himself to be a sensible man in advising you to be. 
wise, and to strain your Greek wines. Safias, ving 
ligues. 

Thus a beautiful land and a pure sky counsel us 
to pursue quiet pleasures. But there are souls trou- 
bled by a sublime discontent. These are the no- 
blest. You were of these, Leuconoé; and coming 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 35 


at the close of my life to the city where your beauty 
shone, I respectfully salute your melancholy shade. 
The souls like yours, who appeared in the age of 
Christianity, were the souls of saints ; and their mira- 
cles fill « The Golden Legend.” Your friend Horace 
left a less noble posterity; and I recognize one of 
his descendants in the person of the tavern-keeper 
poet, who even now is filling the cups with wine 
beneath his epicurean signboard. 

Yet life proves our friend Flaccus right, and his 
philosophy alone is suited to the train of events. 
See that jovial fellow leaning against a covered 
vine-trellis, and eating an ice as he gazes at the 
stars. He would not stoop to pick up the old 
manuscript for which I am going in search with 
so much trouble. And truly, man is made rather 
to eat ices than to pore over old texts. 

I continued to wander among the drinkers and 
the singers. There were lovers, who, their arms 
about each other’s waists, were eating ripe fruit. 
Man must be naturally evil, for all this strange hap- 
piness saddened me deeply. The crowd made such 
a display of their artless delight in mere existence, 
that all the sensitiveness which years of writing 
had intensified in me seemed to revolt against it. 
Furthermore, I was disheartened at not understand- 
ing a word of the gay talk that buzzed through the 
air. It was a humiliating ordeal for a philologist, 
and so I was positively peevish when some words 
uttered behind me fell on my ear. 

« Dimitri, that old man is certainly a Frenchman. 
He looks so bewildered that it troubles me. Shall 


36 THE CRIME OF 


I speak to him? He has a good round back, hasn’t 
he, Dimitri?” 
_ The words were spoken in French, and by a 
woman. At the very first, it was extremely disagree- 
able to hear myself spoken of as an old man. Is 
one old at sixty-two? The other day on the Pont 
des Arts, my friend Perrot d’Avrignac complimented 
me on my youthful appearance; and he is a better 
authority on age, apparently, than this young crow 
who makes remarks about my back. My back is 
round, is it? Ah, ha! I suspected as much; but 
now I shall not believe it at all, since it is the opin- 
ion of a young simpleton. I will not even turn my 
head to see who the speaker is, but I am suture that 
it is a pretty woman. Why? Because she speaks 
in a capricious way, like a spoiled child. Homely 
women would be as capricious as pretty ones; but 
as they are never spoiled, and as no allowances are 
ever made for what they do, they are obliged to 
forget their whims or to hide them. On the other 
hand, pretty women may be as capricious as they 
please. My neighbor is of the latter class. How- 
ever, as I think of it, she expressed a kindly thought 
about me, and that deserves my gratitude. 

These reflections, including the last and crowning 
one, chased one another through my brain in less 
than a second; and if I have taken a whole minute 
to tell them, it is because I am a poor writer, a qual- 
ity common to all philologists. Scarcely a second 
after the voice had ceased speaking, I turned, and 
saw a very vivacious and pretty little brunette. 

“ Madame,” I said, bowing, “ pardon my thought- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 37 


less indiscretion. I could not help overhearing what 
you just said. You wished to do a kindness to a 
poor old man. You have already done it, madame; ° 
the mere sound of a French voice is a pleasure to 
me, and I thank you for it.” 

I bowed again, and was about to move away, 
when my heel slipped on the rind of a watermelon, 
and I should certainly have kissed the Parthenopean 
soil had not the young woman raised her hand to 
catch me. 

In circumstances, even the most trifling, there is 
a force that one cannot resist. I resigned myself to 
being the Arofégé of the unknown lady. 

“It is late,” said she ; “do you not want to return 
to your hotel, which must be near ours, if not the 
same?” 

“ Madame,” I replied, “I do not know what time 
it is, because my watch has been stolen; but I think, 
with you, that it is time to beat a retreat, and I shall 
be happy to return to the Hétel de Génes in the 
company of such kind compatriots.” 

So saying, I bowed again to the young woman 
and her companion, who was a silent giant, gentle, 
yet sad. 

I had not gone far with them before I learned, 
among other things, that they were the Prince and 
Princess Trépof, and that they were making a trip 
around the world in pursuit of match-boxes, of which 
they were making a collection. 

We walked along a winding, narrow vicoletto 
(alley), lighted by a solitary lamp burning before 
the niche of a Madonna. 


136471 


38 THE CRIME OF 


The transparency and purity of the air gave even 
the darkness a heavenly light, and we made our way 
‘ without difficulty under the limpid night. Then we 
plunged into a small street, or, to use the Neapolitan 
expression, a sot¢to-fortico (arcade), which ran along 
beneath so many arches and projecting balconies 
that scarcely a ray of light reached us. My young 
guide took this route, she said, because it was 
shorter, but also, I imagine, in order to show us 
that she was thoroughly acquainted with Naples, 
and could find her way about. It was indeed neces- 
sary to know the city in order to venture by night 
within this labyrinth of subterranean alleys and 
stairways. 

If ever man was docile in letting himself be guided 
it was I. Dante followed the steps of Beatrice no 
more trustingly than I those of the Princess Trépof. 

This lady evidently took some pleasure in my 
conversation; for she offered me a seat in her car- 
riage the next day, to visit the grotto of Posilippo 
and the tomb of Virgil. She declared that she had 
seen me somewhere before, but she did not know 
whether it was at Stockholm or Canton. In the 
former case I was a highly distinguished professor 
of geology; in the latter, a provision-merchant, 
whose courtesy and kindness had been greatly ap- 
preciated. However, she was certain that some- 
where she had seen my back: 

“ Excuse me,” she added; “my husband and I 
travel constantly in order to collect match-boxes, 
and to find new forms of ennui by finding new coun- 
tries. Perhaps it would be better to content our- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 39 


selves with one kind of ennui alone. But all our 
arrangements are made for travelling ; it is no trouble 
for us, and it would be very annoying if we had to 
stop anywhere. I tell you this that you may not be 
surprised if my ideas are somewhat confused. But 
when I first saw you this evening I felt, indeed I 
knew, that I had seen you before. But where? 
That is the question. Are you sure that you are 
neither the geologist nor the provision-merchant?” 

“ No, madame,” I replied, «I am neither the one 
nor the other; and I regret the fact, since you have 
had occasion to be pleased with them. There is 
nothing in me to arouse your interest. I have spent 
my life among books, and I have never travelled. 
You must have seen that from my bewilderment, 
which you pitied. I am amember of the Institute.” 

« A member of the Institute! Oh, that is charm- 
ing! You must write something in my album. Do 
you understand Chinese? I should so much like to 
have you write something in Chinese or Persian in 
my album. I will present you to my friend Miss — 
Fergusson. She travels everywhere, in order to see 
every celebrity in the world. She will be delighted. 
Dimitri, did you hear? This gentleman is a mem- 
ber of the Institute, and has spent his life among 
books !” 

The prince nodded his head approvingly. 

“ Monsieur,” I said, trying to bring him into the 
conversation, “there is no doubt but that something 
is to be learned from books; but one can learn much 
more by travelling, and I greatly regret that I have 
not, like you, been all over the world. 1 have lived 


40 THE CRIME OF 


in the same house for thirty years, and I scarcely 
ever go out.” 

“You have lived in the same house for thirty 
years! Is it possible?” exclaimed Madame Trépof. 

“Yes, madame,” I answered. ‘To be sure, the 
house is on the banks of the Seine, in the most 
noted and most beautiful spot in the world. My 
window looks out upon the Tuileries and the Louvre, 
the Pont-Neuf, the towers of Notre-Dame, the tow- 
ers of the Palais de Justice, and the spire of Sainte- 
Chapelle. All these stones speak to me. They tell 
me stories of the days of Saint Louis, of the Valois, 
of Henry IV. and Louis XIV. I understand them, 
and I love them. It is but one small corner; but in 
all truth, madame, is there a more beautiful one?” 

We had reached a square, a Zargo, bathed in the 
soft radiance of the night. Madame Trépof looked 
anxiously at me, her raised eyebrows almost touch- 
ing her curly black hair. 

“ Where do you live?” she asked suddenly. 

“On the quay Maloquais, madame, and my name 
is Bonnard. Not widely known, it is true; but it is 
enough for me that my friends do not forget it.” 

This announcement, unimportant as it was, pro- 
duced an extraordinary effect on Madame Trépof. 
She immediately turned her back upon me, and 
seized her husband’s arm. 

‘“ Come, Dimitri,’”” said she, “do make haste! I 
am horribly tired, and you are so slow. We shall 
never get there. ‘That is your road, monsieur, over 
there.” 

She pointed vaguely toward a dark vicolo, pushed 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 4! 


her husband in the opposite direction, and called 
out to me without turning her head, — 

“ Farewell, monsieur. We shall not go to Posi- 
lippo to-morrow, nor the day after, either. I havea 
frightful headache, frightful. Dimitri, you are un- 
bearable, you are so slow!” 

I stood petrified, trying, but in vain, to discover 
what I could have done to offend Madame Trépof. 
I was lost; and, so far as I could see, I should have 
to wander about all night. As to asking my way of 
any one, I should have to meet some one in order 
to do this, and I despaired of seeing asoul. In my 
despair I took a street at random, or, rather, a hor- 
rible looking alleyway. It certainly resembled the 
haunt of cut-throats; and, in fact, it was such, for 
I had not walked more than a few moments before I 
came upon two men using knives. They were fight- 
ing with their tongues even more than with their 
blades, and from the harsh words they interchanged 
I concluded that they were lovers. I prudently 
turned into a side alley, while the worthy fellows 
went on with their own affair without in the least 
troubling themselves about mine. I walked on for 
some time at random, and sat down discouraged 
on a stone bench, inwardly cursing the whims of 
Madame Trépof. 

“ How are you, signor? Are you just back from 
San Carlo? Did you hear the diva? One hears 
such singing only at Naples.” 

I looked up, and recognized my landlord. I was 
sitting against the fagade of my hotel, beneath my 
own window. 


42 THE CRIME OF 


/ 


Monte-ALiecro, November 30, 1859. 


My guides, the mules, and I, on our way from 
Sciacca to Girgenti, were resting at an inn in the 
wretched village of Monte-Allegro. The inhabit- 
ants, wasted away by mal’ aria, were shivering in 
the sun. But they are Greeks, and their gayety 
rises above everything. Some of them surrounded 
the inn, full of smiling curiosity. A story, could I 
have told them one, would have made them forget 
all the ills of life. They looked intelligent; and 
the women, although sunburned and faded, wore 
their long black cloaks with much grace. 

Before me were ruins bleached by the sea wind ; 
not even grass grows onthem. The mournful lone- 
liness of the desert reigns in this arid land, the 
parched breast of which scarcely finds sufficient 
nourishment for a few dried mimosa, some cacti, 
and dwarf palms. Twenty paces distant, at the 
bottom of a ravine, some stones were gleaming 
white, like a trail of bones. My guide told me that 
they marked the bed of a stream. 

I had spent a fortnight in Sicily. As I entered 
the Bay of Palermo, which opens between the two 
barren and mighty mountains of the Pellegrino and 
the Catalfano, and runs the length of the Golden 
Conch, I was filled with such admiration that I de- 
termined to travel in the island, so noted on account 
of its historic memories, and so beautiful in the out- 
lines of its hills, which reveal the principles of Greek 
art. Old pilgrim that I was, grown white in the 
Gothic Occident, I dared to venture on this classic 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 43 


soil; and, having arranged with my guide, I went 
from Palermo to Trapani, from Trapani to Selinonte, 
from Selinonte to Sciacca, which I left this morning 
for Girgenti, to find the manuscript of the clerk 
Alexander. The beautiful things that I have seen 
are so fresh in my mind that I consider the trouble 
of describing them a useless task. Why spoil my 
trip by gathering notes? Lovers who truly love 
never describe their happiness. 

Wholly given over to the melancholy of the pres- 
ent and the poetry of the past, my mind filled with 
beautiful images, my eyes full of pure and harmo- 
nious lines, I was sipping the sirup-like dew of a 
fiery wine in the inn of Monte-Allegro, when I saw 
two persons enter the room. After a moment’s hesi- 
tation I recognized them as Monsieur and Madame 
Trépof. 

This time I saw the princess in the light, and 
such a light! When one has enjoyed that of Sicily, 
one understands better these expressions of Sopho- 
cles : — 

“O holy light! ... Eye of the golden day!” 


Madame Trépof, in brown holland, and wearing a 
broad-brimmed straw hat, looked like a very pretty 
woman of about twenty-eight. Her eyes were like a 
child’s, but her full chin showed a riper age. She 
is, I must confess, a very pleasant person. She is 
souple and variable. She is the shifting sea; but, 
thank Heaven, I am no sailor! I soon detected 
that she was in a bad humor; and this, after hear- 
ing her utter a few broken words, I attributed to the 


44 THE CRIME OF 


fact that she had not met a single brigand on the 
way. 

“Such things never happen except to us,” she 
exclaimed, letting her arms fall with a gesture of 
discouragement. 

She asked for a glass of iced water, and the host 
presented it to her with a grace which reminded 
me of those scenes of funeral offerings depicted on 
Greek vases. 

I was in no haste to show myself before the lady 
who had left me so suddenly in the Square in 
Naples; but she caught sight of me in my corner, 
and her quick frown showed me very plainly that 
my presence was disagreeable to her. ~ 

She drank a swallow of the water; and then, 

either her whim changed, or she felt sorry for my 
- solitude, but she came straight to me. 

**Good-morning, Monsieur Bonnard,” she said. 
“ How do you do? What luck to meet you in this 
frightful country !” 

“ This country is not frightful, madame,” I re- 
plied. “This land is a land of glory. Beauty is a 
thing so great and so dignified that it takes centuries 
of barbarism to efface it, and even then there will 
always remain some adorable traces of it! The 
majesty of ancient Ceres still broods over these arid 
valleys, and the Greek muse who made Arethusa 
and Menalus re-echo with her divine accents still 
sings in my ears on the bare mountain and in the 
dried bed of the stream. Yes, madame, when this 
uninhabited earth shall, like the moon, roll its pale 
‘corpse in space, the soil that bears the ruins of 


0 en ey 


, SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 45 


Selinonte shall even in death keep the everlasting 
stamp of beauty; and then, then at least, there will 
no longer be frivolous lips to blaspheme the grandeur 
of these solitudes.” 

I knew very well that my words were beyond the 
comprehension of the pretty little empty-head who 
heard them; but a man like myself, who has spent 
his life over books, cannot change his tone to suit 
every one. Besides, I was glad to teach Madame 
Trépof a lesson in reverence. She received it with 
such submission and with such an intelligent air, 
that I added, in as good-natured a manner as pos- 
sible, — 

« As to whether the chance which has thrown us 
together is fortunate or unfortunate I am at a loss 
to say, before knowing whether or not my presence 
is disagreeable to you. The other day at Naples 
you seemed suddenly to grow weary of my company. 
I can attribute your actions only to my natural dis- 
agreeableness, since at that time I had the honor of 
meeting you for the first time in my life.” 

My words seemed to cause her the most inde- 
scribable delight. She smiled on me most gra- 
ciously, and held out her hand, which I raised to 
my lips. 

“ Monsieur Bonnard,” she said vivaciously, “do 
not refuse a seat in my carriage. You shall talk to 
me on the way about antiquities, and I shall be 
greatly interested.” 

“ My dear,” said the prince, “it shall be just as 
you say; but you know the carriage is not an easy 
riding one, and I fear that you are only giving 


46 THE CRIME OF 


Monsieur Bonnard a chance, to suffer from a hor- 
rible backache.” 

Madame Trépof tossed her head to show that she 
did not hesitate at any such consideration; then 
she took off her hat. The. shadow fell from her 
black hair over her eyes, bathing them in a velvety 
softness. She stood motionless, her features assum- 
ing a far-away, dreamy expression. But suddenly 
her eyes fell on a basket of oranges which the inn- 
keeper had brought in; and taking them up one by 
one, she put them into a fold of her gown. 

“ They are for our drive,” she said. “You are 
going to Girgenti, and so are we. Do you know 
why we are going there? I will tell you. ‘ My hus- 
band, you know, is collecting match-boxes. We 
bought thirteen hundred at Marseilles. But we 
heard that there was a factory of them at Girgenti. 
We were told that it was a small factory, and that 
its products, which are very ugly, never go outside 
of the city and its suburbs. So! we are going to Gir- 
genti to buy these boxes. Dimitri has tried all sorts 
of collections, but at present he is interested in noth- 
ing but match-boxes. He already has five thousand 
two hundred and fourteen different kinds. -We have 
some that were a great deal of trouble to find. For 
instance, we knew that at Naples boxes were once 
made with the portraits of Mazzini and Garibaldi on 
them, and that the police had seized the plates from 
which they were printed, and imprisoned the manu- 
facturer. By hunting and inquiring we secured one 
of these boxes for a hundred francs, instead of two 
sous. That was not very dear, but we were in- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 47 


' 
formed against. We were taken for conspirators. 


Our baggage was searched. They did not find the 
box, however, which I had carefully hidden; but they 
found my jewels, and took them. They still have 
them. The affair caused some talk, and we were 
on the point of being arrested. But the king heard 
of it, and ordered us to be let alone. Until then I 
thought it stupid to collect match-boxes ; but when 
I found that our liberty and perhaps our life were 
at stake, I developed a sudden liking for it. Now 
I have a perfect craze for collecting match-boxes. 
Next summer we are going to Sweden to complete 
our collection. Are we not, Dimitri?” 

I felt (must I admit it?) considerable sympathy 
for these intrepid collectors. No doubt I should 
rather have found Monsieur and Madame Trépof 
interested in antique marbles and painted vases in 
Sicily. I should like to have seen them studying 
the ruins of Agrigentum and the poetical traditions 
of the Eryx. But no matter; they were making-a 
collection, they belonged to the. brotherhood, and 
could I laugh at them without laughing at myself? 
Besides, Madame Trépof had spoken of her collec- 
tion with a mingling of enthusiasm and irony that 
made the idea a very pleasing one. As we were 
about to leave the inn, we saw some men with car- 
bines under their dark cloaks, coming down-stairs 
from the upper rooms. To me they had the appear- 
ance of thorough-going bandits, and after they had 
gone I told Monsieur Trépof my opinion of them. 
He calmly replied that he thought as I did, —that 
they were bandits; and our guides advised us to 


48 THE CRIME OF 


take an escort of gendarmes. But Madame Trépof 
begged us to do nothing of the kind. There was no 
neéd, she said, to spoil her trip. 

Turning a pair of pleading eyes to me, she 
added, — 

“Ts it not true, Monsieur Bonnard, that nothing 
in life is worth anything but sensations?” 

“No doubt, madame,” I replied; “but still, we 
must understand the nature of the sensations. Those 
that are inspired by a noble memory or a grand 
spectacle are of course the best element of life; 
. whereas it seems to me that those resulting from 
threatening danger should be carefully avoided. 
Should you think it pleasant, madame, if at mid- 
night among the mountains the muzzle of a carbine 
were pressed against your forehead?” 

«Oh, no,” she answered; “comic operas have 
made carbines perfectly absurd, and it would be a 
great misfortune for a young women to be killed 
with an absurd weapon. But a knife-blade is an- 
other thing. A polished, cold knife-blade! That 
makes one shiver.” 

She herself shivered as she spoke, closed her 
eyes, and threw her- head back. ‘Then she re- 
sumed, — 

“You are happy — you are interested in all sorts 
of things.” 

She gave a side glance at her husband as he 
stood talking with the innkeeper. Then, leaning 
towards me, she said in a low tone, — 

“ Dimitri and I are both bored to death, you see. 
To be sure, we have the match-boxes left, but one 


/ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 49 


tires even of them. Besides, before long our collec- 
tion will be completed. What shall we do then?” 

“Ah, madame,” I said, touched by the moral 
wretchedness of this pretty woman, “if you had a 
son, you would know what to do. The aim of your 
life would be very apparent then, and your thoughts 
would be at once more serious and more cheerful.”’ 

“I have a son,” she replied. “He is grown now; 
he is almost a man. He is eleven years old, and is 
already wearied of life. Yes, really, my George, he, 
too, suffers from ennui. It is very distressing.” 

Again she glanced at her husband, who was 
superintending the harnessing of the mules on the 
road, and examining the girths and straps. Then 
she asked me if, during the last ten years, there had 
been many changes on the quay Malaquais. She 
said she never went there, because it was too far 
away. ; 

“ Too far from Monte-Allegro?” I asked. 

“Oh, no!” she answered; “too far from the 
Avenue des Champs-Elysées, where we live.” 

Then, as if to herself, she murmured in a low 
tone, — 

“Too far! too far!” with a dreamy expression, 
the meaning of which I could not fathom. 

Suddenly she smiled and said to me, — 

“J like you immensely, Monsieur Bonnard, im- 
mensely,” 

The mules were harnessed. The young woman 
picked up the oranges, which had fallen from her 
lap, rose, and, looking at me, began to laugh. 

“ How I should like to see you struggling with 


50 THE CRIME OF 


brigands!”shecried. “You would say such extraor- 
dinary things to them! Do take my hat and hold 
my parasol for me, will you, Monsieur Bonnard ?” 

“ Well,” said I to myself as I followed her, “ well, 
she is a queer little mortal! Nature must have 
been unpardonably thoughtless when she gave a 
son to such a silly creature!” 


GiRGENTI, The same day. 


Her manners had shocked me. I let her settle 
herself in her /e¢¢ica (litter), and I made myself as 
comfortable as I could in mine. These wheelless 
vehicles are borne by two mules, one in front, the 
other behind. This style of litter or chair is of 
ancient usage. I often used to see similar ones 
depicted in French manuscripts of the fourteenth 
century. I did not know then that some day I 
should be using one of them. It is well for us not 
to count too certainly on anything. 

For three hours the mules jingled their little bells, 
and beat their hoofs on the sunburnt soil. On 
either side the arid and prodigious shapes of an 
African landscape came slowly into view. When 
we had gone half the distance we paused to let our 
mules take breath. Madame Trépof stepped from 
her litter, and, coming to me, took my arm, and drew 
me forward a few steps. Then, all at once, in a 
voice that I could not believe was hers, she said to 
me, — 

“Do not think me a bad woman. My George 
knows that I am a good mother.” 


; 
E 
z 
F 
F, 





« 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 51 


We walked a space in silence. She raised her 
head, and I saw that she was weeping. 

“ Madame,” I said, “do you see this soil that is 
cracked by five months’ heat? A little white lily 
has sprung from it.” 

And with the end of my cane I pointed to the 
frail stalk ending in a double blossom. 

“ Your heart also,” I said, “however arid it may 
be, yet bears its white lily. This in itself proves 
that I do not think you to be, as you said, a bad 
woman.” 

“Yes, Iam! yes, I am!” she cried, with the ob- 
stinacy of achild. “I am a bad woman; but I am 
ashamed of it before you, who are so good, so very 
good.” 

“ You know nothing about it,” I said. 

“ Yes, I do; I know you,” she said with a smile. 
And with a quick step she returned to her 4¢tica. 


Grrcenti, Movember 30, 1859. 
The following day I awoke at Girgenti, in the 
house of Gellias. Gellias was a wealthy citizen of 
ancient Agrigentum. He was as noted for his gen- 
erosity as for his opulence, and*he endowed his city 
with a large number of free hotels. Gellias has 


_ been dead for more than thirteen hundred years, 


and there is no longer free hospitality among civil- 
ized peoples. But the name Gellias now belongs to 
a hotel, where, as I was worn out with fatigue, I 
was able to get a good night's rest. 

Modern Girgenti raises its narrow, closely built 


52 THE CRIME OF 


s 


houses above the acropolis of ancient Agrigentum, 
and over all a sombre Spanish cathedral looks down. 
From my windows I see, half-way down the hill 
toward the sea, the white line of half-destroyed 
temples. These ruins are the sole touch of fresh- 
ness. All else is dried up. Water and life have 
deserted Agrigentum. Water, the divine Nestis of 
Empedocles of Agrigentum, is so necessary to life 
that nothing lives far from streams and springs. 

But a brisk trade is carried on at the port of Gir- 
genti, three kilometers from the city. 

“So,” said I to myself, “in this sad city, on this 
abrupt height, the manuscript of the clerk Alexan- 
der is to be found!” ; 

I had Signor Micael-Angelo Polizzi’s house pointed 
out to me, and went there. 

I found Signor Polizzi clad in white from head to 
foot, engaged in cooking sausages in a frying-pan. 
At sight of me he let go the handle of the pan, 
raised his arms, and gave a cry of delight. He was 
a small man, whose pimpled face, hooked nose, pro- 
jecting chin, and round eyes made a remarkably 
expressive physiognomy. 

He addressed me as Your Excellency, said that 
this was a red-letter day, and asked me to be seated. 
The room in which we were, opened into the kitchen, 
the parlor, the sleeping-room, the workshop, and the 
‘cellar. 

I saw furnaces, a bed, some canvases, an easel, 
several bottles, some bunches of onions, and a mag- 
nificent colored spun-glass chandelier. I glanced 
at the pictures with which the walls were covered. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 53 


“ Art! art!” cried Signor Polizzi, again raising 
his arms to heaven. “Art! What an honor! 
Whatacomfort! Iam a painter, Your Excellency.” 

He showed me an unfinished Saint Francis, which 
might well have remained so without loss to art or 
religion. Then he called my attention to some old 
pictures of a somewhat better quality, but they 
seemed to me to have been restored indiscrim- 
inately. 

“I repair ancient paintings,” said he. “Oh, what 
soul, what genius, the old masters had !” 

“Is it true, then?” I asked, “are you painter, 
antiquary, and wine-merchant all in one?” 

“ At your service, Your Excellency,” he replied. 
“ At present I have a zucco, every drop of which is 
a pearl of fire. 1 will have your lordship taste it.” 

“ I esteem the wines of Sicily highly,” I answered ; 
“but I have not come to see you on account of your 
bottles, Signor Polizzi.” 

He.— “For my paintings, then. You are an 
amateur. It is a great delight to me to receive 
such men. I will show you the masterpiece of 
‘Monrealese;’ yes, Your Excellency, his master- 
piece! ‘The Adoration of the Shepherds!’ It is 
the gem of the Sicilian school!” 

J. — “ It will give me pleasure to see this master- 
piece. But let us first speak of what has brought 
me here.” 

_ His small, restless eyes, brimming over with curi- 
osity, fastened themselves on me; and I saw with a 
sharp pang that he did not even suspect the object 
of my visit. 


54 THE CRIME OF 


Anxious, feeling the cold perspiration on my 
brow, I pitifully stammered out something to this 
effect, — 

“] have come from Paris on purpose to see a 
manuscript of ‘The Golden Legend,’ which you 
wrote that you had in your possession.” 

At these words he raised his arms, opened wide 
his mouth and eyes, and showed the greatest agita- 
tion. 

“Oh! the manuscript of ‘The Golden Legend’! 
A gem, Your Excellency, a ruby, a diamond! Two 
miniatures so perfect that they seem to give you a 
glimpse of Paradise. What softness is there! The 
wonderful tints robbed from the corolla of a flower 
are honey for the eyes! A Sicilian could not have 
done better!” 

“ Show it to me!” I cried, unable to conceal my 
impatience or my hope. 

“ Show it to you!” cried Polizzi. ‘How can I, 
Your Excellency? Inolonger have it! I no longer 
have it!” 

And he seemed as if he would tear his hair from 
his head. He might have pulled every bit of it out 
of his hide before I would have stopped him. But 
he grew calm before he had done himself much 
damage. 

“ What!” I cried in my wrath; “do you mean 
that you led me to come from Paris to Girgenti by 
offering to show me a manuscript, and when I ar- 
rive you tell me that you no longer have it? It is 
shameful, monsieur. I will expose you to all good 
men.” 


SYZLVESTRE BONNARD. 55 


Had any one seen me then, he would have gained 
a good idea of an enraged sheep. 

“It is shameful! shameful!” I repeated, shaking 
my trembling arms. 

Micael-Angelo Polizzi sank into a chair in the 
manner of a dying hero. His eyes filled with tears ; 
and his hair, which until then had stood on end, 
fell in disorder about his forehead. 

“TI ama father, Your Excellency, I am a father!” 
cried he, clasping his hands. He added between 
sobs, — 

“ My son Rafael, the son of my poor wife whose 
death I have mourned for fifteen years, Rafael, 
Your Excellency, wanted to set up a business in 
Paris. He rented a shop in the Rue Laffitte in 
order to sell curios. I gave him everything of any 
value that I possessed, —my handsomest majolica 
ware, my most beautiful faience from Urbino, my 
finest paintings — such paintings, signor! They 
still dazzle me in imagination. And they were all 
signed! I gave him the manuscript of ‘ The 
Golden Legend.’ I would have given him my flesh 
and blood. He was my only son, the child of my 
poor, sainted wife !” 

“So,” said I, “while I, trusting to your given 
word, was coming to the heart of Sicily in quest 
of the clerk Alexander’s manuscript, this manuscript 
lay in a shop-window in the rue Laffitte, not fifteen 
hundred meters from my own lodgings !” 

“It was there, that is positive,” replied Signor 
Polizzi, suddenly growing calm again; “and it is 
still there, or at least I trust so, Your Excellency.” 


56 THE CRIME OF 


He took from a shelf a card which he handed to 
me, saying, — 

“Here is my son’s address. You will greatly 
oblige me by letting your friends know it. Faience, 
enamels, draperies, paintings, a complete assort- 
ment of objects of art, all at the most reasonable 
prices, all guaranteed, on my word of honor. Go 
and see him. He will show you the manuscript of 
‘The Golden Legend.’ Two miniatures of wonder- 
ful clearness.” 

I was weak enough to accept the card he handed 
me. This man took advantage of my weakness in 
again asking me to mention the name of Rafael 
Polizzi to my friends. 

My hand was already on the door-knob, when the 
Sicilian grasped my arm. He seemed inspired. 

“ Ah, Your Excellency,” he cried, “what a city is 
ours! It gave birth to Empedocles. Empedocles ! 
What a man he was! What a citizen! What bold- 
ness of thought he possessed! What virtue! What 
soul! Down there at the port, there is a statue of 
Empedocles; and whenever I pass it I uncover. 
When my son Rafael was on the point of setting out 
to open a shop of antiquities in the rue Laffitte, in 
Paris, I went with him to the port of our city, and 
at the feet of the statue of Empedocles, I gave him 
my paternal blessing. ‘Remember Empedocles!’ I 
said tohim. Ah! signor, our unhappy country needs 
another Empedocles to-day! Should you like me 
to show you the statue, Your Excellency? I will be 
your guide to the ruins. I will show you the temple 
of Castor and Pollux, the temple of Jupiter Olym- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 57 


pus, the temple of Lucinian Juno, the ancient well, 
the tomb of Theron, and the Golden Gate. Pro- 
fessional guides are all ignorant mules! but we will 
make excavations, if you wish, and we will discover 
treasures. I understand the science, the gift of 
making treasure-troves, a gift of Heaven.” 

Finally I succeeded in getting away. But he ran 
after me, stopped me at the foot of the stairs, and 
whispered in my ear, — 

“Listen, Your Excellency! I will guide you 
about the city. I will make you acquainted with 
some of our girls! What a race they are! What 
a type! What figures they have! Sicilian girls, 
signor! the ancient beauty!” 

“The Devil take you!” I cried in anger; and 
I rushed into the street, leaving him discoursing 
in a lofty style equal to his enthusiasm. When 
I was out of his sight I sank down on a stone, 
and clasping my head in my hands, began to ru- 
minate. 

“Was it,” thought I to myself, “was it to listen 
to such propositions that I came to Sicily? This 
Polizzi is a scoundrel, his son is another, and to- 
gether they have tried to ruin me. But what plot 
have they arranged?” 

I could not understand it. In the meanwhile, 
was | not sufficiently humiliated and disappointed ? 

A burst of merry laughter made me raise my 
head; and I saw Madame Trépof running in front 
of her husband, and waving a diminutive some- 
thing in her hand. She seated herself by my side, 
and showed me, amid bursts of fresh laughter, a 


58 THE CRIME OF 


wretched little pasteboard box, on which was a 
bluish-red head, indicated in the description as that 
of Empedocles. i 

“ Yes, madame,” I said; “but that wretched 
Polizzi to whom I advise you not to send Monsieur 
Trépof has disgusted me for life with Empedocles, 
and this picture of him is not calculated to make 
this ancient philosopher any more agreeable to 
me.” 

“Oh,” said Madame Trépof, “it is homely, but it 
is rare. These boxes are not exported. They have 
to be bought on the spot. Dimitri has six others 
just like this in his pocket. We took them in or- 
der to exchange with collectors, you see. We were 
at the factory at nine o’clock this morning. So you 
see we have not wasted our time.” 

“TI certainly do see that, madame,” I replied in 
a bitter tone ; “ but I have wasted mine.” 

I saw then that she was a kind woman. All her 
merriment disappeared. 

“Poor Monsieur Bonnard! Poor Monsieur Bon- 
nard!” she whispered ; and taking my hand in hers 
she added, “tell me about your troubles.” 

I told her. It was a long story, but she was 
touched; for afterwards she asked me a number of 
minute questions, which I looked upon as a proof 
of her interest. She wanted to know the exact title 
of the manuscript, its size, appearance, and age. 
Then she asked me for Signor Rafael Polizzi’s ad- 
dress. I gave it to her (O fate!), doing exactly as 
that wretched Polizzi had asked me to do. 

It is sometimes difficult to stop. I began my suf- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 59 


ferings and imprecations all over again. This time 
Madame Trépof commenced to laugh. 

“ Why do you laugh?” I asked her. 

“ Because I am a wicked woman,” she replied. 
Then she fled away, leaving me alone and mystified 
on the stone. 


Paris, December 8, 1859. 

My trunks, still unpacked, were piled up in the 
dining-room. I was seated before a table laden 
with all the good things that France produces for 
an epicure. I was eating a pdté de Chartres, which 
alone would make one love one’s country. Thérése, 
her hands clasped over her white apron, stood watch- 
ing me with kindness, anxiety, and pity. Hamilcar 
was rubbing against me wild with joy. 

The following verse of an old poet came to my 
mind : — 


“ Happy is he, who, like Ulysses, has made a good 
Journey.” 


*« Well,” I thought to myself, «I have journeyed’ 
in vain, I have returnet empty-handed, but, like 
Ulysses, I have made a good journey.” 

I swallowed my last drop of coffee, and asked 
Thérése for my hat and cane. She handed them 
to me with a look of distrust, fearing a second de- 
parture. But I reassured her by asking her to have 
dinner ready by six o'clock. 

It was always a delight to me to saunter along 
the streets of Paris, every cobble and flagstone of 
which I worship. But I had an object in view, and 


/ 


K 
4 





60 THE CRIME OF 


I went direct to the rue Laffitte. _I was not long in 
finding Rafael Polizzi’s shop. It attracted atten- 
tion because of its great array of old paintings. 
These, although bearing a diversity of famous 
signatures, nevertheless showed a certain family 
likeness, which would have given one the idea of 
the touching fraternity among geniuses, had it not 
betrayed rather the tricky mannerisms of Polizzi 
senior. Enriched by these dubious masterpieces, 
the shop was brightened by various curios, swords, 
flagons, goblets, vases, brass godroons, and Spanish- 
Arabian dishes of metallic lustre. 

On a Portuguese armchair in embossed leather 
lay a copy of Simon Vostre’s “ Hours,” open at the 
page that is embellished with an astrological figure ; 
and an old Vitruvius on a chest displayed its mas- 
terly engravings of caryatides and telamones. This 
seeming disorder, which concealed a wise arrange- 
ment, this way in which the objects were thrown 
apparently at random, and yet by which they were 
placed in the most favorable light, would have in- 
creased my distrust ; but that, which the mere name 
of Polizzi roused in me, could not be augmented, as 
it was boundless to begin with. 

Signor Rafael, who seemed to be the sole genius 
of all this incongruous and heterogeneous mass, 
struck me as a phlegmatic young man, a sort 
of Englishman. He showed none of his father’s 
transcendental faculties of buffoonery and declama- 
tion. 

I told him the object of my coming. He opened 
a closet, and brought out a manuscript which he 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 61 


placed on a table, that I might examine it at my 
leisure. 

Never in my life have I felt such a sensation 
except during a few months of my boyhood, the 
memory of which, should I live to be a hundred, 
will be at my last hour as fresh in my mind as on 
the first day. It was actually the manuscript de- 
scribed by Sir Thomas Raleigh’s librarian. It was 
indeed the clerk Alexander’s manuscript that I saw 
before me, that I touched! Voragine’s work was 
evidently abridged, but that was of small conse- 
quence. The priceless additions of the monk of 
Saint-Germain-des-Prés were there. That was the 
great point! I tried to read the legend of Saint 
Droctoveus, but it was in vain. All the lines were 
blurred before my eyes, and my ears rang with 
the sound of a mill-wheel at night in the country. 
I saw, however, that the manuscript offered points 
of the most undeniable authenticity. The two 
drawings of the Purification of the Virgin and the 
Crowning of Proserpine were weak in design and 
crude in color. Greatly damaged in 1824, as the 
catalogue of Sir Thomas states, they had since then 
regained their freshness. But this miracle was not 
surprising to me. And, besides, what did I care for 
the two miniatures? The legends and the poem of 
Alexander were the treasures! I took in as much 
of it as my eyes could see. 

I affected an indifferent manner, and asked Si- 
gnor Rafael the price of the manuscript, inwardly 
praying, while I waited his reply, that the figures 
would not be beyond my small savings, which 


62 - THE CRIME OF 


already had been greatly diminished by my expen- 
sive journey. Signor Polizzi replied that he could 
not sell the manuscript because it did not belong to 
him. This, with other manuscripts and a few zz- 
cunabula, was to be put up at auction in the Hétel 
des Ventes. 

It was a cruel blow to me. I strove to hide my 
feelings, and answered somewhat in this way, — 

“You greatly surprise me, monsieur. Your father, 
whom I have recently seen at Girgenti, told me that 
you were the possessor of this manuscript. You 
surely do not want to make me doubt your father’s 
word.” ; 

“TI was,” Rafael replied with perfect sincerity; 
“but it is no longer mine. That manuscript, the 
great value of which has not escaped you, I sold 
to a private collector whose name I am forbidden to 
mention, and who, for reasons which I must also 
decline to state, is obliged to dispose of his collec- 
tion. Honored by the confidence of my client, I am 
ordered by him to arrange the catalogue and direct 
the sale, which will take place the twenty-fourth of 
next December. If you care to leave your address, 
I will take pleasure in sending you the catalogue, 
which is now in press, and in which you will find 
‘ The Golden Legend’ described under No. 42.” 

I gave him my address and left. 

I was as disagreeably impressed by this man’s calm 
dignity as by his father’s impudent mummery. From 
the bottom of my soul I detested the tricks of these 
wretched traffickers. It was clear to me that the 
two scoundrels were in league, and that they had 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 63 


devised this auction sale merely for the sake of 
raising to an exhorbitant price the manuscript I 
wanted, and had secured the aid of an auctioneer so 
as to avoid any recrimination. 1 was completely in 
their hands. Even the noblest passions have one 
serious drawback : they compel us to yield to others, 
and thus make us become dependent. This thought 
was deeply painful to me, but it did not rid me of 
the wish to own the manuscript of the clerk Alex- 
ander. Suddenly, while I was meditating, I heard 
a driver swear; but not until I felt the pole of his 
carriage in my ribs did I realize that I was the one 
at whom he was angry. I stepped aside in time to 
escape being run over; and whom did I see through 
the coupé window but Madame Trépof, driving into 
the street which I had just left. She had two spirited 
horses, and a driver dressed in fur like a Russian 
nobleman. She did not see me. She was smiling 
to herself with that childish expression which still 
gave her, at thirty, the charm of a girl. 

“ Well,” said I to myself, “she is laughing, is she? 
She must have found a new match-box.” 

And full of disappointment I reached the Bridges. 


Ever indifferent, Time brought the twenty-fourth 
of December with haste and without delay. I went 
to the Hétel Bullion, and took my stand in Room 
No. 4, at the foot of the desk where Boulouze, 
the auctioneer, and the expert Polizzi were to con- 
duct the sale. I saw the room fill gradually with 
well-known faces. I shook hands with several old 
booksellers of the quay; but discretion, which every 


64 THE CRIME OF 


great desire inspires in even the most confident, pre- 
vented my explaining my unusual presence in the 
H6tel Bullion. On the contrary, I asked these gen- 
tlemen what possible interest they could have in the 
Polizzi auction, and I had the satisfaction of hear- 
ing them speak of everything else but the object of 
my desires. 

The room filled slowly with interested and curi- 
ous spectators; and at the end of half an hour the 
auctioneer with his ivory gavel, the clerk with his 
account-book, the expert with his catalogue, and the 
crier provided with a wooden bowl fastened to the 
end of a stick, filed in with the solemnity of .a peas- 
ant funeral, and took their places on the platform. 

The hall-boys stood around below the desk. The 
officers announced that the sale was about to begin, 
and for a moment there was partial silence. 

First (at a reasonable price) was sold an ordinary 
lot of Preces fie with miniatures. It is needless 
to say that the latter were absolutely modern. 

The insignificance of the bids encouraged the 
crowd of second-hand bookdealers; and they mingled 
with us, and began to grow familiar. The copper- 
smiths came in their turn; and while they were wait- 
ing for the doors of an adjoining room to open, their 
ribald jokes drowned the voice of the crier. 

A magnificent manuscript of the Guerre des Jutfs 
stirred some interest. It gave rise to a long and 
lively rivalry. 

“ Five thousand francs, five thousand!” shouted 
the crier; while the coppersmiths, filled with admira- 
tion, kept still. Seven or eight antiphonaries went 


— 
‘a 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 65 


at a low price. A huge bareheaded woman, en- 
couraged by the size of the volume and the low 
bidding, secured one of the antiphonaries for thirty 
francs. 

Finally the expert Polizzi announced No. 42, 
“The Golden Legend,” a French manuscript un- 
published; two superb miniatures; started at three 
thousand francs.” 

“ Three thousand! Three thousand!” shouted 
the crier. 

“ Three thousand!” dryly repeated the auctioneer. 

My temples throbbed ; and, as though through a 
mist, I saw a crowd of serious faces turned toward 
the manuscript, which a boy was carrying open 
around the room. 

“Three thousand and fifty!” I cried. I was 
startled at the sound of my own voice, and confused 
at seeing, or thinking that I saw, all faces turned to- 
ward me. 

“Three thousand and fifty on the right!” called 
the crier, taking my bid. 

“Three thousand one hundred!” cried Signor 


Polizzi. - 
Then began a heroic duel between the expert and 
myself. 


“ Three thousand five hundred !” 

« Six hundred !” 

“ Seven hundred!” 

“ Four thousand !” 

* Four thousand five hundred !”” 

Then by an appalling jump, Signor Polizzi sud- 
denly raised the bid to six thousand. 


66 THE CRIME OF 


All I had at my disposal was six thousand francs. 
For me it was the possible. I risked the impos- 
sible. 

«« Six thousand one hundred!” I shouted. 

Alas! Even the impossible did not suffice. 

“ Six thousand five hundred,” was Signor Polizzi’s 
calm response. 

I lowered my head, and sat with my mouth open, 
daring to say neither yes nor no to the crier who 
shouted to me, — 

“The bid of six thousand five hundred is mine, 
not yours there on the right, but mine! No mistake! 
Six thousand five hundred !” 

“ That is understood,” cried the auctioneer. “Six 
thousand five hundred. That is clearly understood. 
Well? Is there no one who offers more than six 
thousand five hundred francs?” 

A solemn silence filled the room. Suddenly I 
felt as if my head were bursting. It was the auc- 
tioneer’s hammer, which, with a quick, short tap on 
the desk, irrevocably knocked down No. 42 to Signor 
Polizzi. At the same time the clerk ran his pen across 
the stamped paper, and registered the great fact in a 
simple line. 

I was absolutely crushed, and felt the necessity of 
rest and solitude. Yet I did not leave my seat. 
By degrees I began to think. Hope is tenacious; 
and I still had one hope. It occurred to me that 
the buyer of “ The Golden Legend” might be an 
intelligent-and liberal book-lover, who would let me 
see the manuscript, and even allow me to publish 
the more important “facts of it. Therefore, when 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 67 


the sale was over, I accosted the expert who was 
coming from the platform. 

“ Monsieur,” said I, “did you buy No. 42 for 
yourself, or on commission?” 

“On commission. I was ordered not to let it go 
at any price.” 

“ Can you tell me the name of the buyer?” 

“TI am very sorry to disappoint you, but that is 
absolutely forbidden.” 

I turned from him in despair. 


December 30, 1859. 

“ Thérése, don’t you hear? the bell has been ring- 
ing for the last quarter of an hour.” 

Thérése does not reply. She is gossiping in the 
lodge with the janitress. Of this I am sure. So 
this is the way you celebrate your old master’s birth- 
day! You leave me even on the eve of Saint-Sylves- 
tre! Alas! If good wishes do come to me on this 
day, they must come out of the ground; for every- 
thing that ever loved me has long since been 
buried. I do not know of what use I am in the 
world, There is the bell again! 

I leave the fireplace slowly, with stooping shoul- 
ders, and open the door myself. Whom do I see at 
the head of the stairs? Not Cupid with dripping 
wings, and I am not the old Anacreon; but I see.a 
pretty little boy of ten. He is alone. He raises his 
head, and looks at me. His cheeks are rosy, but 
his little saucy nose has a roguish expression. He 
has feathers in his cap, and a great ruff of lace on 
his blouse. Such a pretty little fellow! In his arm 


68 THE CRIME OF 


he carries a package as big as himself. He asks 
if I am Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard ; and upon my 
saying that I am, he hands me the package, which 
he says is from his mamma; then he darts down- 
Stairs. 

I descend a few steps, and leaning over the bal- 
usters I see the little fellow flying around the spiral 
staircase like a feather in the breeze. “Hallo! my 
little boy !”” — I should have been so glad to speak 
to him. But what should I have asked him? It is 
not nice to ply children with questions. Besides, 
the package will probably tell me more than the 
messenger. It is a very large package, but not 
very heavy. Returning to my library, I remove its 
ribbons and wrappings, and find—what? A log, 
a great log, a real Christmas log, but so light that 
I conclude it must be hollow. In fact, I discover 
that it consists of two pieces fastened together by 
clasps, and opening on hinges. Pushing back the 
clasps, I am suddenly inundated with violets! My 
table, my knees, the carpet, are covered with them. 
They pour into my waistcoat, and into my sleeves. 
I am all perfumed by them! 

« Thérése ! Thérése! Fill some vases with water 
and bring them to me! Here are some violets, 
come I know not from what country or by what 
hand; but it must be a sweet country, and a gentle 
hand. Old crow, don’t you hear me?” 

I have put the violets on my table, which is com- 
pletely hidden beneath their fragrant masses. 

But, there is something else in the log, —a book, a 
manuscript. It is— 1 can scarcely believe my eyes, 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 69 


yet there it is — “The Golden Legend,” the manu- 
script of the clerk Alexander. Here is the Purifica- 
tion of the Virgin, and the Crowning of Proserpine, 
and the legend of Saint Droctoveus. I gaze at the 
relic, which is sweet with the odor of the violets. I 
I turn over the leaves, between which some of the 
demure little blossoms have found their way, and 
opposite the legend of Saint Cecilia, I find a card 
bearing this name : — 


PRINCESS TREPOF. 


Princess Trépof! You, who laughed and cried by 
turn ‘so prettily under the lovely sky of Agrigentum 
— you, whom a crabbed old man took for a little 
simpleton, have convinced me to-day of your rare 
and beautiful folly ; and the man whom you over- 


.whelm with joy will go and kiss your hand, and 


offer you an edition of this precious manuscript 
in such an accurate and sumptuous form as will 
satisfy both science and himself. 

Just then Thérése, in a great state of agitation, 
came hurrying into my library. 

“ Monsieur,” she cried, “ guess whom I have just 
seen at the door, in a carriage bearing a coat-of- 
arms ?” 

“ Madame Trépof,” I cried. 

“I have no idea who Madame Trépof is,” replied 
my housekeeper. “The lady I saw just now was 
dressed like a duchess. She had with her a little 
boy whose clothes were all trimmed with lace. And 
it was that little Madame Coccoz to whom you sent 


70 THE CRIME OF 


a log when she was confined eleven years ago. I 
recognized her instantly.” 

“ Madame Coccoz!” I exclaimed quickly; “the 
almanac peddler’s widow? You don’t say so!” 

“ The very same, monsieur. The coach-door was 
wide open as her little boy was getting into the car- 
riage — where he had come from I’m sure I don’t 
know. She has changed scarcely any. And why 
should such women grow old? They have no cares 
at all. Madame Coccoz is merely somewhat stouter 
than formerly. The idea of a woman who was re- 
ceived here out of charity coming to display her 
velvet and diamonds in a carriage with her coat- 
of-arms on it! Is it not shameful?” 

“ Thérése!” I cried in a voice of thunder, “if you 
speak of this lady in any but terms of the highest 
respect, we shall quarrel. Bring me my Sévres vases 
for these violets. They give to this City of Books a 
charm it has never had before.” 

While Thérése with heavy sighs went for the 
Sévres vases, I looked at the beautiful violets which 
lay about me, spreading their perfume around like 
the sweetness of some gentle soul, and I asked my- 
self how I could have failed to recognize Madame 
Coccoz in the Princess Trépof. But the young 
widow who held out her little naked child to me 
on the stairway had been but a fleeting vision. I 
had much greater cause to reproach myself for hav- 
ing passed by a kind and beautiful heart without 
discovering it. 

“ Bonnard,” I said to myself, “ you know how to 
decipher ancient texts, but you are utterly incapa- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 71 


ble of reading the Book of Life., This giddy little 
Madame Trépof, who you believed had no more 
heart than a bird, has in her gratitude displayed 
more spirit and energy than you have ever shown 
for the sake of obliging any one. She has royally 
repaid you for the log you sent her that day when 
her child was born. 

“ Thérése, you weve a magpie, but you are turn- 
ing into a tortoise. Do come, and bring me some 
water for these Parma violets!” 





Part II. 
CLEMENTINE’S DAUGHTER. 





THE FAIRY. 
L 


WHEN I left the train at the Melun station, 
night was spreading her peace over the silent land. 
‘The-earth,heated all day long by the blazing 
—the “broad sun” (gras soleil), as the expression 
is among the harvesters of the Valley of Vire, — ex- 
haled a warm, pungent odor. A breath, laden with 
the heavy perfume of grasses, now and again swept 
along the ground.{ I brushed off the dust of the 
car, and exultingly drew in a deep breath. My 
travelling-bag, which my housekeeper had packed 
with linen and various toilet articles, Horace’s wun- 
ditiis, weighed so little in my hand, that I swung it 
back and forth as a boy just out of school swings 
his strap full of class-books. 

Would to Heaven I were still a little school-boy ! 
But fifty years have passed since my good mother, 
with her own hands, made me a plum tart, which 
she put into a basket, the handle of which she 
slipped over my arm. Thus fortified, I was taken 
to the school kept by Monsieur Douloir, in a house 
that stood between a court and a garden, in a cor- 
ner of the Passage du Commerce well-known to the 
sparrows. 

Monsieur Douloir was a huge man, who smiled 
at us in a pleasant way, and patted my cheek, in 


75 





76 THE CRIME OF 


order, no doubt, the better to express the affection 
which I immediately inspired**in him, But no 
sooner had my mother crossed the court, startling - 
the sparrows as she went, than Monsieur Dou- 
loir ceased to smile on me, and showed me no 
further marks of attention. On the contrary, he 
seemed to consider me a very troublesome little 
fellow, and very much in the way. I afterwards 
discovered that he cherished similar feelings for all 
his pupils. He distributed ferulings with an agility 
which one would not have expected in a man of his 
excessive corpulence. But his early affection showed 
itself whenever he spoke to our mothers in our 
presence. Then he would praise our beautiful dis- 
positions, and at the same time look down at us 
with affection; yet those were indeed happy days 
that we spent on the benches at Monsieur Douloir’s, 
with the little maids, who, like myself, laughed and 
cried by turn, with their whole heart, from morning 
to night. 

After half a century, these memories come fresh 
and clear to the surface of my mind, under this 
starry sky, which is forever the same. Undoubtedly 
those calm and steady lights will look down on other 
school-children such as I was, and see them grow 
into men like myself, — gray-haired, and subject to 
catarrh. ' 

Stars that have shone on eacn frivolous or serious 
head among all my forgotten ancestors, your bright- 
ness has caused me to feel a pang of keen regret! 
I would that I had a son who, when I no longer 
could behold you, might still gaze up at you. How 








SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 77 } 


I should love him! Ah! he would now — what am 
I saying ?— he would now be twenty years old, had 
you so willed it, Clémentine — you whose cheeks 
were so fresh beneath your rosy hood! 

But you married a clerk in a bank, — that same 
Noél Alexandre, who afterwards made so many 
millions. I have not seen you since your marriage, 
Clémentine; yet I always think of you with your 
golden gurls and your rosy hood. 

A mirror! A mirror! Give me a mirror! I 
should like to see how I look now with my white 


locks, breathing the name of Clémentine to the. 


stars. However, it is not well to end ironically that 
which one has begun in a spirit of faith and love. 
Clémentine, if your name came to my lips this 
beautiful night, may it be blessed; and may you, a 
happy mother, a happy grandmother, enjoy to the 
very end, with your opulent husband, the bliss which 
you thought, as you had the right to think, you could 
not have with the poor young scholar who loved 
you! If, although I cannot imagine it, your hair 
has grown white, Clémentine, carry with dignity 
the bunch of keys intrusted to you by Noél Alex- 
andre, and teach your grandchildren the sweet do- 
mestic, virtues ! 

ta beautiful night! She reigns with languor- 
ous gentleness over man and beast, freed from the 
daily yoke; and I feel her kindly influence, though 
from habit confirmed by sixty years, I no ‘Tonger 
feel things except by the signs which represent 
them. There is for me in this world nothing but 
words, such a philologist have I become. Each 





78 THE CRIME OF 


in his own way dreams the dream of life. I have 
dreamed mine in my library; and when the hour 
comes for me to depart from this world, may the 
good God take me as I stand on my ladder before 
my shelves of books! 


“Why, yes, here is the man himself! Good- 
evening, Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard! Where are 
you going, tramping over the country with your 
light step, while I have been waiting for you at the 
station with my carriage? I missed you when the 
train went out, and I was on my way back to 
Lusance. Give me your valise, and get into the 
carriage here beside me. Do you know it is seven 
good kilometers from here to the chateau!” ; 

Who is calling to me thus in a loud voice from his 
high-seated carriage? Monsieur Paul de Gabry, 
nephew and heir of Monsieur Honoré de Gabry, 
peer of France in 1842, who recently died at Mo- 
naco. And I was on my way to Monsieur Paul de 
Gabry’s, with my valise which my housekeeper had 
packed. This excellent young fellow, conjointly with 
his two brothers-in-law, had just come into posses- 
sion of the property. The uncle, the descendant of 
a very ancient and distinguished family of jurists, 
had_ preserved, in his chateau at Lusance, a library, 
rich in manuscripts, some of which dated back to 
the fourteenth century. And I had come to Lu- 
sance, in order to make an inventory and catalogue 
of these manuscripts, at the urgent invitation of 
Monsieur Paul de Gabry, whose father, a man of 
honor and a distinguished bibliophile, had during 


= 





SYZLVESTRE BONNARD. : 79 


his lifetime been on friendly terms with me. Truth 
to tell, the son has not inherited his father’s refined 
tastes. Monsieur Paul is devoted to all kinds of 
sport; he thoroughly understands horses and dogs ; 
and I believe, that of all the sciences suited to sa- 
tiate or deceive the inexhaustible curiosity of man, 
those of the stable and, the kennel are the only ones 
of which he is master, | 

I cannot say that I was surprised to meet him, 
since I had an appointment with him; but I con- 
fess that, carried away by the natural trend of my 
thoughts, I had forgotten the Chateau of Lusance 
and its owners; so that when a country gentleman 
called out to me, just as I was starting down the 
road, which unwound before me like ux bon ruban 
de queue, as they say, his voice fell on my ears at 
first like an unaccustomed sound. 

I have reason to fear that my physiognomy showed 
my absent-mindedness by a certain expression of stu- 
pidity, which it assumes in most of my social irans- 
actions. My valise found a\place in the carriage, 
and I followed my valise. My host pleased me by 
his frank and simple manner. 

“ I know nothing about your old parchments,” said 
Vhe, “but you will find some companionable people 
at our house. Without counting the curate, who 
writes, and the physician, who is very likable, 
though a radical, you will find one who will keep 
pace with you. I mean my wife. She is not very 
learned, but I think there is nothing which she does 
not get at the heart of. I hope to keep you long 
enough so that you may meet Mademoiselle Jeanne ; 


~~ 








80 THE CRIME OF 


she has the fingers of a magician and the spirit of 
an angel.” 

“Is this gifted young lady,” I asked, “a member 
of your family?” 

“No, indeed,” replied Monsieur Paul. 

“A friend, then, I presume?” I asked, inanely 
enough. 

“She is an orphan, without father or mother,” 
replied Monsieur de Gabry, with his eyes fixed on 
his horse’s ears, while the hoof-beats resounded on 
the hard road, that gleamed blue in the moonlight. 
“Her father involved us in great trouble, and we 
got out of it; but it cost us much more than mere 
fear.” 

Then he shook his head, and changed the sub- 
ject. He warned me of the state of decay in which 
I should find the park and the chateau. a had 
been absolutely deserted for thirty-two years. , / 

I learned from him that Monsieur Honoré de 
Gabry, his uncle, had been, during his lifetime, on 
bad terms with the poachers of the country, and 
had shot at them as if they were rabbits. One of 
them, a vindictive peasant who had received a 
charge of shot full in the face, one night lay in wait 
for the seigneur, behind the trees along the mall, 
and almost killed him, for he scored the tip of his 
ear with a bullet. 

“My uncle,” added Monsieur Paul, “tried to dis- 
cover who fired the shot, but he could not make out, 
and he returned to the chateau without hurrying. 
The following day he called his steward, told him 
to close the manor and the park, and not to allow a 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 81 


living soul toenter. He expregsly forbade anything 
to be touched, repaired, or kept in order on the es- 
tate, or in his home, until his return. He added, 
between his teeth, that he would return at Easter or 
Trinity, as in the song; and, as in the song, Trinity 
passed, and he was not seen. He died last year, at 
Monaco ; and my brother-in-law and I were the first 
to enter the chateau since it was abandoned, more 
than thirty-two years ago. We found a chestnut- 
tree growing in the middle of the drawing-room, 
and the park is still inaccessible for lack of paths.” 
y companion grew silent. Nothing was heard 
save the regular trot of the horse, and the hum of 
the insects in the grass.| In the fields, on both sides 
of the road, the rows of sheaves, with the uncertain 
moonlight falling on them, looked like tall white 
women kneeling. Like a child I gave myself up to 
the wonderful fascinations of the magic night.) We e 
passed under the thick shadows of the mall, and 
turning at right angles, our carriage rolled along a 
magnificent avenue, at the end of which the chateau 
suddenly appeared in all its massive blackness, with 
its pepper-box towers. We followed a sort of cause- 
way, which led to the court-of-honor, and which 
. passed over a moat filled with running water, tak- 
ing the place, no doubt, of a drawbridge long since 
destroyed.| The loss of the drawbridge was, I 
think, the first humiliation to which the warlike 
manor had to submit before it was finally reduced 
to the peaceful conditions under which it welcomed 
me. 
[ The stars were reflected with marvellous clearness 


82 THE CRIME OF 


in the dark water. ,Monsieur Paul, being a most 
courteous host, escorted me to my room, which was 
in the top of the chateau, at the end of a long corri- 
dor. Then apologizing, on account of the lateness 
of the hour, for not presenting me at once to his 
wife, he bade me good-night. 

My chamber, painted white and hung with chintz, 
bore traces of the sprightly grace characteristic of 
the eighteenth century. Still glowing embers filled 
the fireplace, and made me feel what pains had 
been taken to dispel all dampness from the room. 
On the mantel-piece stood a bisque bust of Queen 
Marie Antoinette. On the white frame of the dark 
and specked glass, two brass hooks, which once had 
held ladies’ chatelaines, offered a fitting place for 
my watch, which I was careful to wind. For, con- 
trary to the maxims of Thelemites, I think that man 
is master of Time, which is Life itself, only when he 
has divided it into hours, minutes, and seconds; that 
is to say, into spaces proportioned to the brevity of 
human existence. 

And I thought that life seems short to us only 
because we foolishly measure it by our irrational 
hopes. All of us, like the old man in the fable, 
have a wing to add to the house we are building. I 
want to finish, before I die, the “History of the 
Abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.” The time that 
God gives to each of us is like a precious tissue, 
which we are to embroider to the best of our abil- 
ity. I have worked my woof with every kind of 
philological design. 

Thus my thoughts wandered on; and in tying my 


* SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 83 


silk nandkerchief about my head, the idea of time 
took me back to the past; and for the second time 
in the turn of the dial, I thought of you, Clémentine, 
and blessed you in your posterity, if you have any, 
before I blew out my candle, and fell asleep to the 
songs of the. frogs. | 


II. 


During breakfast I had many opportunities of 
gaining a high idea of Madame de Gabry’s taste, 
tact, and intelligence. She told me how the chateau 
was haunted by ghosts, and especially by the lady 
“ with the three wrinkles in her back,” who in her 
lifetime had poisoned people, and whose soul was 
now doomed to eternal torment. I cannot describe 
the spirit and vivacity which she infused into the tell- 
ing of this old nurse’s tale. We drank our coffee 
on the terrace, the balusters of which, grasped and 
torn from their stone railing by a lusty ivy, were held 
between the knots of the wanton plant in the hope- 
less attitude of the Athenian women in the arms of 
wicked Centaurs. 

The chateau was built in the form of a four- 
wheeled cart, re-enforced by a tower at each corner; 
but it had been repaired so many times that it had 
, lost all its originality. It was a roomy, dignified 
structure — nothing more. It did not strike me as 
~ having suffered much damage during its thirty-two 
years of abandonment; but when Madame de Gabry 
showed me the large drawing-room on the ground- 
* floor, I perceived that the flooring was heaved up, 


84 THE CRIME OF 


the plinths rotten, the woodwork cracked, the paint- 
ings of the piers turned black and three-quarters 
out of their frames. A chestnut-tree had pushed 
through the flooring, and was growing there, its 
. broad leaves turned toward the glassless window. 
Although the sight had a charm for me, yet 1 
viewed it with anxiety, when I thought how Mon- 
sieur Honoré de Gabry’s rich library in the adjoin- 
ing room had been exposed for so long to these 
destroying influences. Butas I looked at the young 
chestnut-tree in the drawing-room, I could not help 
admiring the magnificent force of Nature, and that 
irresistible power which pushes every germ toward 
the development of life. On the other hand, I grew 
sad when I thought how painful, and yet fruitless, 
is the effort which we scholars make to keep and 
preserve anything that is dead. Whatever has 
lived is a necessary aliment for new life. The 
Arab who builds himself a hut with marble from 
the temples of Palmyra is a greater philosopher 
than all the guardians of the museums in London, 
Paris, and Munich. 


[a 


— August 11. 


Thank God, the library, situated toward the east, 
has not suffered irreparable damage. Except the 
shelf containing the heavy folio volumes of old 
coutumiers, which the mice have riddled, the books 
are untouched in their grated cases. 

I have been spending the whole day in classifying 
manuscripts. The sun came in through the high, 
curtainless windows; and in the midst of my read- 


; 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 85 


ing, which at times was very interesting, I keard 
the drowsy bumblebees striking heavily against the 
window-panes, the cracking of the woodwork, and 
the flies, blinded with light and heat, buzzing in 
circles about my head. Towards three o’clock their 
buzzing became so loud that I raised my head from 
a document that was of great value for the history 
of Melun in the thirteenth century, and I began to 
watch the concentric movements of these little ani- 
mals, or destions as they are called by Lafontaine, 
who found the term in the old popular idiom whence 
comes the expression “ tapestry @ destions,” that is, 
tapestry with little figures on it. I had to confess 
that heat affects the wings of a fly in a very differ- 
ent manner from what it does the brain of a stu- 
dent of old manuscripts; for I found it very hard 
to think, and fell into a pleasant revery, from which 
I had difficulty in rousing myself.| The dinner-bell 
surprised me in the midst of my labors; and I had 
just time to slip on my new coat, so as to appear 
respectable in Madame de Gabry’s eyes. 

The meal, which consisted of several courses, was 
naturally long. As a connoisseur of wine, I have a 
talent perhaps above the average. My host, who 
soon discovered the extent of my knowledge, was 
gracious enough to uncork for me a bottle of Cha- 
teau-Margaux of the genuine vintage of Bordeaux. 
With real reverence I drank this wine, so royal in 
its origin, so noble in its flavor, with a bouquet and 
fire beyond all praise. This glowing liquid infused 
itself into my veins, and awakened in me the spark 
of youth. Seated on the terrace with Madame de 


86 THE CRIME OF 


Gabry, in the twilight which now spread a soft mel- 
ancholy over the trees of the park, and bathed even 
the smallest objects in a mysterious light, I had the 
pleasure of telling my lively hostess my impressions, 
with a vivacity and fluency most remarkable in a 
man like me, devoid of all imagination. 

I described to her’spontaneously, and without the 
help of a single old quotation, the soft melancholy 
of the twilight, and the beauty of the mother-earth 
that nourishes us, not only by bread and wine, but 
by ideas, feelings, and beliefs, and which will re- 
ceive us again into her maternal bosom, as if we 
* were little children wearied after a long day.: 

“Monsieur,” said this good lady, “look at these 
old towers, these trees, this sky. How naturally the 
heroes of stories and songs came from them all! 
Over there is the path by which little Red Riding 
Hood went to the woods to gather nuts. This ever- 
changing and half-veiled sky was marked by fairy 
chariots, and the northern tower might have hidden 
at one time beneath its painted roof the old dame 
whose spindle pricked the Sleeping Beauty of. the 
woods.” 

I was still thinking of these pretty fancies, while 
Monsieur Paul puffed a strong cigar, and told me 
about some action which he had brought against 
the commune concerning a water-privilege. Madame 
de Gabry, feeling the evening dampness, shivered, 
though her husband had thrown a shawl over her 
shoulders, and left us to go to her room. 

I then determined that instead of going to mine, 
I would return to the library, and continue my ex- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 89 


amination of the manuscripts. So, in spite of Mo#°® 
sieur Paul’s protest, I went to what, in old-fashionec ull 
language, I shall call the /brairie, or book-room, * 
and set to work by lamp-light. 

After I had read fifteen pages, which fad evi- 
dently been written by an ignorant and careless 
clerk, for I experienced some difficulty in making 
out their meaning, I plunged my hand into the open 
pocket of my coat to get my snuff-box; but this or- 
dinary and, as it were, instinctive movement, this 
time cost me some effort and fatigue. Neverthe- 
less, I opened the silver box, and took out a pinch 
of the odorous powder, spilling it all down my shirt- 
front under my baffled nose. 

I am sure that my nose showed its Aainecink 
ment, for it is a very expressive nose. Many times 
it has betrayed my innermost thoughts, and espe- 
cially in the public library of Coutances, where, 
under the very beard of my colleague Brioux, I dis- 
covered the “ Cartulary of Notre-Dame-des-Anges.” 
How great was my joy! My small, dull eyes, 
screened by their glasses, did not betray me. But 

at the mere sight of my broad pug-nose, trembling 
‘ with joy and pride, Brioux surmised that I had 
found a treasure-trove. He saw the volume which 
I held, noted the shelf where I replaced it, took it 
down as soon as I had gone, copied it secretly, and 
published it without delay, in order to play me a 
turn. But the edition swarms with blunders, and 
I had the satisfaction of criticising several of his 
gross mistakes. 

But to resume. I suspected that a heavy stupor 


86> THE CRIME OF 

Gas weighing upon my mind. | I was looking at a 
azhart, the interest of which every one can appreciate 
when I say that mention is made in it of a rabbit- 
hutch sold to Jehan d’Estouville, priest, in 1312. 
But although I realized at the time its great value, 
I did not pay it the attention that such a document 
deserved. In spite of all my efforts, my eyes kept 
turning to one side of the table where there was 
nothing important as far as learning was concerned. 
There was merely a great German volume there, 
bound in pig-skin, with brass studs on the sides, 
and heavy raised bands at the back. It was a fine 
example of that compilation so well known under 
the name of “ Cosmography of Munster,” valuable 
merely on account of the wood engravings with 
which it is adorned. The volume, with its covers 
somewhat spread apart, stood face down on its 
edge. 

I could not say how long I had been gazing with- 
out any apparent reason on this sixteenth century 
folio, when my eyes were attracted by a sight so 
unusual, that even a man totally devoid of imagina- 
tion, like myself, would have been very much startled 
by it. / 

Suddenly I noticed, though I had not seen any 
one come into the room, a diminutive young woman, 
seated on the back of the book, with one knee folded 
under her, the other leg hanging down in almost the 
same position as that taken by the Amazonian 
horseback riders in Hyde Park or in the Bois du 
Boulogne. She was so small that her swinging foot 
did not reach the table, on which lay the train of 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 89 


her gown in a serpentine line. She had the face 
and figure of a well-developed woman. Her full 
bust and ample waist left no doubt on this point, 
even to the mind of an old scholar like myself) 

I may add, without fear of being mistaken, that 
she was very beautiful and of proud mien; for my 
iconographic studies have long since accustomed me 
to recognize the purity of a type and the character of 
a physiognomy. The face of this lady, who had so 
unexpectedly seated herself on the back of a “ Cos- 
mography of Munster,” expressed a noble pride, 
mingled with waywardness. {She had the air of a 
queen, but of a whimsical queen; and I judged from 
the glance of her eye that somewhere she exercised 
great authority in a very capricious way.) 

There was a proud and ironical expression about 
her mouth, and a disquieting smile gleamed in her 
blue eyes, under her delicately arched black brows. 

I have always understood that black eyebrows 
are very becoming to blondes, and this lady was 
very blond. In short, the impression she gave was 
one of greatness. 

It may seem strange that a person no taller than 
a bottle, and whom I might have hidden in my coat- 
pocket if it had not been disrespectful to put her 
there, should give one the idea of greatness. But 
in the proportions of the lady seated on the “ Cos- 
mography of Munster,” there was such a proud 
daintiness, such a dignified harmony, her attitude 
was at once so easy and so noble, that she seemed 
great to me. And she was great, and imposing too, 
in her sprightliness; although my inkstand, which 


90 THE CRIME OF 


she gazed at with an ironical attention, as if she 
could read in advance every word that would come 
from the end of my pen, was for her a deep ba- 
sin, in which she would have got her pink silk 
stockings, with their yellow clocks, black up to the 
garters. 

\Her costume, suited to her style, was very rich, 
It consisted of a robe of gold and silver brocade, 
and a cloak of zacarat velvet, lined with small vazr. 
Her coiffure was a sort of ennin, with two horns; 
and pearls of beautiful water made it gleam as bright 
as the crescent moon.{ In her small white hand she 
held a wand. This wand attracted my attention all 
the more strongly for the reason that my archzxo- 
logical studies had taught me to recognize with some 
certainty the signs by which the noted characters 
of legend and of history are distinguished. This 
knowledge came to my mind in the midst of the 
strange conjectures I was making. 

I looked at the wand, which seemed to me to 
have been cut from a hazel branch. 

“It is a fairy wand,” I said to myself, “and con- 
sequently the lady who holds it is a fairy.” 

Happy at thus recognizing the lady who sat be- 
fore me, I strove to collect my ideas, and pay her 
a respectful compliment. \ I should have felt some 
satisfaction, I confess, in speaking to her in a 
learned way of the part played by her compeers, 
both among the Saxon and Germanic races, and in 
the Latin Occident. Such a dissertation was, to my 
thinking, an ingenious way of thanking this lady for 
having appeared before an old scholar, contrary to 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. gI 


the usual custom of her people, who show themselves 
onto innocent children and ignorant villagers. — 

Being a fairy does not make one any less a woman, 
I said to myself; and since Madame Récamier, if I 
may credit J. J. Ampére, used to blush with pleas- 
ure when the little chimney-sweeps opened their eyes 
wide in order to see her as well as they could, the 
supernatural little lady seated on the “ Cosmography 
of Munster” would no doubt feel flattered to hear a 
scholar discoursing in a learned manner about her, 
as if she were a medal, a seal, a buckle, or a token. 

But such a venture, which was a trial to a man 
like myself, became entirely out of the question when 
I beheld the lady of the “ Cosmography ” quickly 
draw from a purse at her side some nuts, smaller 
than any I had ever seen, crack them between her 
teeth, and throw the shells into my face, while she 
craunched the kernels with the seriousness of a nurs- 
ing child. 

, Under such circumstances, I did what the dignity 
of science demanded, —I was silent. But as the 
shells tickled me disagreeably, I raised my hand to 
my nose, and to my great surprise found that my 
spectacles were straddling the end of it, and that I 
was looking at the lady, not through them, but over 
them; a most incomprehensible thing, because my 
eyes, weakened by work on old manuscripts, could 
not, without the aid of spectacles, distinguish a 
melon from a carafe, even if both were held directly 
in front of my nose. 

This nose, remarkable on account of its size, 
shape, and color, naturally attracted the attention of 


g2 THE CRIME OF 


the fairy; for she seized my goose-quill, which rcse 
from the ink-well like ee and tickled my nose 
with the feather end of it 

I have had in society, now and then, occasion to 
become a cheerful victim to the innocent pranks of 
young girls, who, drawing me into their games, of- 
fered me their cheeks to kiss through the back of a 
chair, or asked me to blow out a candle which they 
immediately raised out of the reach of my breath. 
But until then no one of the fair sex had ever sub- 
jected me to such a familiar trick as tickling my 
nose with the feathers of my own pen. 

Happily I recalled a maxim of my late grand- 
father, who had a habit of saying that everything 
is allowed to the ladies, and that anything that they 
do is a favor and a compliment. Therefore I re- 
ceived the nut-shells and the feathers of my pen as 
if they were favors and compliments, and I strove 
to smile. More than this! I spoke 

‘Madame,” I said, with dignified courtesy, “the 
honor of your visit you confer on no child or peas- 
ant, but on a book-lover, who is happy indeed to 
make your acquaintance} and who knows that in 
days gone by you used to entangle the manes and 
tails of mares in their cribs, and to drink the milk 
from foaming bowls, to pour prickly burs down the 
_ backs of our great-grandmothers, to make the hearth 
snap sparks into the faces of worthy people, and, in 
a word, to fill the house with confusion and merri- 
ment. Moreover, you can boast of having, at night 
in the woods, given belated couples many a good 
fright! [Bu I thought you had vanished at least 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 93 


three centuries ago. Is it possible, madame, that 
you are seen in these days of railways and tele- 
graphs? My janitress, who in her day was a nurse, 
does not know your story; and my little neighbor, 
still in his nurse’s care, says that you no longer 
exist.” 

«“ What do you say about it?” cried she, in a sil- 
very voice, drawing up her royal little person in a 
cavalier-like manner, and beating the back of the 
“ Cosmography of Munster” as if it had been a 
hippogriffe. 

“1 do not know,” I answered, rubbing my eyes. 

This reply, stamped with a profoundly scientific 
scepticism, produced the most deplorable effect on 
my visitor. . 

“ Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard,” said she, “you 
are nothing but a pedant. I have always suspected 
it. The smallest of ‘the little urchins who go along 
the street with their shirts sticking out of their. 
ragged trousers knows me better than all the spec- 
tacled people of your institutes and your academies. 
Knowledge is nothing, imagination is everything. 
Nothing exists except what we imagine. I am im- 
aginary, and that is living! People dream of me, 
and I appear! Everything is but a dream; and 
since no one dreams of you, Sylvestre Bonnard, you 
do not exist. I delight the world. I am every- 
where, on a moonbeam, in the ripple of a hidden 
spring, in the moving foliage that sings, in the white 
vapors rising every morning from the wilds of the 
meadows, among the pink heath, everywhere! —I 
am seen, I am loved. There are sighing, there 


94 THE CRIME OF 


are trembling hearts wherever my light footsteps 
fall, causing the dead leaves to sing. I make little 
children smile, I give humor to the dullest-minded 
nurses. Stooping over cradles, I tease, I console, 
I lull to sleep, and you are in doubt as to my exis- 
tence! Sylvester Bonnard, your warm-lined coat 
covers the hide of an ass!” 

She became silent. Her delicate nostrils quiv- 
ered with indignation; and while, in spite of my vex- 
ation, I was admiring the noble anger of this little 
creature, she dipped my pen in the ink-well, as one 
would an oar in a lake, and threw it at my nose, the 
point foremost. 

I rubbed my face, and felt that it was covered 
with ink. She had vanished from sight. My lamp 
had gone out. A moonbeam had stolen down the 
window-pane, and lay upon the “ Cosmography of 
Munster.” <A cool breeze, which had risen without 
my perceiving it, was blowing away pens, papers, 
and wafers. My table was covered with ink. I 
had left my window partly open during the storm. 
How imprudent 


IT. 


I wrote to my housekeeper, as I promised, that 
I was well and happy. I was very careful not to 
mention the head cold which I caught from having 
slept that evening in the library with the window 
open, for the good woman would have been no more 
sparing of remonstrances than are parliaments to 
kings. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 95 


“To be so careless at your age, monsieur.” she 
would have said. She is simple enough to think 
that sense increases with years. I seem to her an 
exception to the rule. Not having the same reasons 
for withholding my experience from Madame. de 
Gabry, I told her all the details of my dream, in 
which she took great interest. - 

“Your dream,” said she, “is charming. One 
must have real cleverness to have such visions!” 

“ You mean that I am clever when I am asleep,” 
I said. : 

“When you dream,” she replied; “and you are 
always dreaming !” 

I know very well that in speaking thus Madame 
de Gabry had no thought other than to make me 
happy, but her intention deserves my warmest 
thanks. It is with a deep sense of gratitude and 
kindly remembrance that I copy down her words 
in my diary; and I shall always feel the same when 
I read them over and over, until I die, but no one 

ides myself shall read them. 

I spent the following days in completing the in- 
ventory of the manuscripts in the library of Lusance. 
A few confidential words which escaped Monsieur 
Paul de Gabry caused me painful surprise, and 
made me determined to carry on my work in a dif- 
ferent manner from that in which I had begun it. 


From those few words, I learned that Monsieur Ho- 


noré de Gabry’s property had been badly managed 
for years, and to a great measure lost by the failure 
of a banker, whose name I do not know, and that 


the old French nobleman’s heirs received nothing / 


2 


96 THE CRIME OF 


from it except hypotheticated real estate and uncol- 
lectable accounts. 

Monsieur Paul, by agreement with his joint heirs, 
had decided to sell the library; and I was commis- 
sioned to arrange for the sale on the most advan- 
tageous terms. But, as I am wholly unacquainted 
with the methods of business and trade, I resolved 
to ask the advice of a friend of mine, who is a book- 
seller. I wrote to him to come to Lusance; and 
while waiting for his arrival, I took my hat and 
walking-stick, and went out to visit the churches of 
the diocese, in some of which are epitaphs as yet 
never correctly copied. / 

So I took leave of my hosts, and set out on my 
pilgrimage. Every day I explored churches and 
cemeteries, visited curates and village notaries, 
supped at inns with peddlers and cattle-dealers, and 
slept between lavender-scented sheets, thus spend- 
ing a week of calm, profound enjoyment, thinking 
of the dead, and watching the living busy with their 

daily labor. So far as the object of my researches 
was concerned, I made but ordinary discoveries, such 
as caused me no great delight; and on that very ac- 
count my pleasure was healthful and not fatiguing. 
I deciphered some interesting epitaphs, and added 
to this small store several recipes for country dishes, 
which a worthy curé was kind enough to bestow on 
me. 

With these treasures I returned to Lusance, and 
crossed the court-of-honor with the deep satisfaction © 
of a countryman returning home. This was caused 
by the kindness of my hosts, and the sensations 


SYLVESTRE BONNAKD. 97 


which at that time I felt on their threshold proves 
better than any argument their kind hospitality. © 

I reached the large drawing-room without meeting 
any one; End the young chestnut-tree, which sprea 
out its broad leaves there, seemed like a end) 
But what I next saw on the pier-table was such 
surprise to me, that I adjusted my spectacles with 
both hands, and pinched myself in order to get at 
least a superficial idea of my own existence. Twenty 
or more ideas came to my mind in an instant; and 
of them all, the most likely was that I had gone 
mad. It seemed to me impossible that what I saw 
was really there, yet I could not see it except as ex- 
isting. The cause of my surprise, as I have said, 
was on a pier-table beneath a dull and specked 
mirror. 

I-caught sight of my own reflection in this mirror, 
and_I_may say that for once in my life I saw the 
living image of stupefaction. But I made allow- 
ancés for myself, and approved of myself for-being 
stupefied by a stupefying thing. The object; at 
which I was gazing with an astonishment not di- 
minished by reflection, accepted the examination 
without moving. The persistency and fixity of the 
phenomenon excluded all idea of hallucination. I 
am absolutely free from those nervous troubles 
which affect the sight.{ This is generally due to indi- 
gestion, and thank Heaven I have a good digestion. 
Moreover, the illusions of sight are accompanied by 
* peculiar and abnormal conditions, which affect the 
victims themselves, and inspire them with a sort of 
terror. But I felt nothing of all this. And the ob- 




















98 THE CRIME OF 


ject before me, although impossible in itself, appeared 
to me under every condition of actual reality. I 
noticed that it had three dimensions and color, and 
that it cast a shadow. Ah! How I watched it! 
The tears came into my eyes, and I was obliged to 
wipe my spectacles. 

oe I had to yield to the evidence, and confess 
that I saw before me the fairy of whom I had 
dreamed the other evening in the library. It was 
she! T-assure you it was she! She still had her 
child-queen air, that proud yet supple attitude. In 
her hand she held her wand of hazel-wood. She 
wore the two-horned eznin, and the train of her 
brocade robe lay in serpentine folds about her little 
feet. The same face and figure as before. It was 
indeed she; and to make assurance doubly sure, she 
was seated on the back of a heavy old volume that 
looked very much like the “ Cosmography of Mun- 
ster.” Her immobility half reassured me; but I 
feared that she would again draw some nuts from 
her purse, and throw the shells into my face. 

I stood there, my arms raised, my mouth open, 
when Madame de Gabry’s laughing and musical 
voice fell on my ear. 

“So you are studying your fairy, are you, Mon- 
sieur Bonnard?” exclaimed my hostess. “ Well, 
do you see any resemblance ? 

It was said quickly; but in the meantime I had 
time to see that my fairy was a statuette modelled 
in colored wax, with evident feeling and taste, by the 
hand of some amateur. But the phenomenon, thus 
rationally explained, was still a surprise to me. 

















{| caught sight of my own reflection in the mirror. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 99 


How and by whom had the lady of the “ Cosmog- 
raphy” come into plastic existence? This was 
what I had still to learn. 

\ ‘Turning to Madame de Gabry, I saw that she 
was not alone. A young girl dressed in mourning 
stood beside her. She had large, intelligent eyes, 
of a gray as soft as the sky of the Isle de France, 
and with an expression in them indicating both 
strength and innocence. Her arms were somewhat 
thin, her hands restless and small, and red as the 
hands of a young girl usually are. In her merino 
dress she looked like a young sapling. Her mouth 
was large, indicating frankness. I cannot tell how 
greatly this young girl pleased me at first glance. 
She was not beautiful; but she had three merry 
dimples in her cheeks and chin, and her whole per- 
son, though betraying the awkwardness of inexpe- 
rience, had in it something strong and fine. 

My eyes went from the statuette to the young 
girl; and I saw the latter blush, but frankly, deeply, 
the blood rushing like a torrent over her face. 

“Well,” said my hostess, who, being accustomed 
to my absent-mindedness, repeated her question, 
“is that the lady who came in to see you through 
the window which you left opened She was very 
bold, but you were just as imprudent. Tell me, do 
you recognize her?” 

‘It is her very self,” I replied. “I see her once 
more —on this pier-table, just as I saw her on the 
library table.” 

“If that is so,” replied Madame de Gabry, “the 
r nsibility for this resemblance you may charge 


—— 


100 THE CRIME OF 


first to yourself, who for a man devoid of all imagi- 
nation, as you Say you are, can describe your dreams 
| so vividly; next to me, who remembered your dream, 

and repeated it faithfully; and lastly, and above all, 
to Mademoiselle Jeanne, whom I present to you, and 
who, following out my suggestions, modelled the wax 
figure that you see.” 

As she spoke, Madame de Gabry took the young 
girl’s hand; but Mademoiselle Jeanne tore herself 
away, and was already down in the park, darting 
away as if on wings. 

“ You silly girl!” cried Madame de Gabry as she 
ran. “Why beso shy? Come back to be scolded 
( and kissed ! i) 

But no reply came, and the frightened bird disap- 
peared within the shrubbery. Madame de Gabry 
sat down in the only armchair the deserted room 
possessed. : 

“ I should be greatly surprised,” said she, “ if my 
husband had not already spoken to you of Jeanne. 
We love her deeply, and indeed she is a good girl. 
Tell me frankly, what do you think of the statuette?” 
- T replied that it showed taste and spirit, but that 
the artist needed study and practice. But I was 
greatly touched because her young fingers had 
worked out an old man’s rough sketch, and por- 
trayed with such brilliancy an old dotard’s dreams. 

«« My reason for asking your advice,” gravely re- 
sumed Madame de Gabry, “is because Jeanne is a 


poor orphan. Do you think she could make her 


living by modelling statuettes like this one?” 
“No; I do not,” I replied. “ And it is not ti be 


/ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. Io! 


greatly regretted. You say the girl is affectionate 
and gentle. I believe you. I see it in her face. 
An artist’s life has temptations which lead generous 
spirits beyond proper rules and limits. This young 
creature is moulded out of loving clay. Keep her 
for the home and fireside. There alone is true hap- 
piness.” 

“But she has no dowry!” replied Madame de 
Gabry. Then, holding out her hand to me, she 
added, “ You are our friend, and I may tell you all. 
This child’s father was a banker, and a friend of 
ours. He tried to engineer various colossal specu- 
lations ; and this, in fact, was what ruined him. He 
survived but a few months after his failure, in which 
(Paul must have told you) three-fourths of my uncle’s 
fortune was sunk, and more than half of ours. / 

“We knew him at Monaco the winter that we 
spent with my uncle. He had an adventurous dis- 
position, but so plausible! He deceived himself 
before deceiving others. The greatest skill lies in 
that, does it not? My uncle, my husband, and I> 
were drawn into *.; and we risked more than a rea- 
sonable amov .t in a dangerous speculation. But 
what matter, as Paul says; since we have no chil- 
dren. | Moreover, we have the satisfaction of know- 
ing that -he friend in whom we trusted was an honest 
man.) \ ou must know his name, it was so constantly 
in the }.apers and on posters, Noél Alexandre. His 
wife was very sweet.| I did not know her until she 
vas already faded; but she still retained traces of 
beauty, and a taste for great style and show that 
well kecame her. She was somewhat fond of excite- 


102 THE CRIME OF 


ment, but she showed great courage ands dignity 
after her husband’s death. (She died a year later, 
leaving Jeanne alone in the world.’ ‘ 

“ Clémentine !” I exclaimed. 

Upon hearing what I had never imagined, and 
the mere thought of which would have roused to re- 
bellion all the forces of my soul, on learning that 
Clémentine was no more on earth, a great silence, 
as it were, took possession of me; and the feeling 
which swept over my whole being was not a sharp, 
sudden pang, but a calm and solemn sadness. I 
felt an indescribable peace, and my thoughts sud- 
denly rose to heights unknown. 

“From where you are to-day, Clénjentine,” I said 
to myself, “look down on this heart now grown cold 
with years, but whose pulse once beat warmly for 
you, and tell me if it does not again waken at the 
thought of loving all that is left of you on earth. 
All is over since you are gone} but life is immortal, 
_ and it is this we must love in its constantly renewed 
form. The rest is child’s play; and I, with my books, 
am, as it were, a little boy playing with knuckle- 
bones. O Clémentine, you have revealed to me the 
aim of life.” Madame de Gabry roused me from 
my reflections by the words, — 

“The child is poor.” 

«“Clémentine’s daughter poor!” I exclaimed. 
“ How fortunate that is! None other than I must, 
provide for her, and give her a dowry. No! Clémen- 
tine’s daughter shall not receive a dowry from any 
one but me!” 

I approached Madame de Gabry, who had already 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 103 


risen, and taking her right hand, I kissed it, laid it 
upon my arm, and said, “ Take me to the grave of 
Noél Alexandre’s widow.” And I heard Madame 
de Gabry say to me, — 

“Why are you weeping?” 


——— 


104 THE CRIME OF 


LITTLE. SAINT GEORGE, 
April 16. 


Saint DrocToveus and the early abbots of 
Saint-Gemain-des-Prés have taken up my time and 
attention for forty years, but I do not know whether 
or not I shall write their history before I go to join 
them. I have been an old man for many years. 
One day last year, on the Pont des Arts, one of my 
colleagues of the Institute was complaining to me of 
the trials of growing old. 

“ Still,” Sainte-Beuve answered him, «that j is the . 
only way yet discovered of living long.” 

I have used this method, and I know what it is 
worth. The pity lies, not in living too long, but in 
seeing every one around us die. Mother, wife, 
friends, children, Nature makes and unmakes these 
divine treasures with calm indifference, and we find 
that in the end we have been loving and embracing 
mere shadows. But there are some very dear ones! 

If ever any one glided like a shadow into a man’s 
life, it was the young girl whom I loved when (how 
incredible it now is!) I was a young man. And the 
memory of this shadow is even to-day one of the 
dearest realities of my life. 

A Christian sarcophagus from the catacombs of 
Rome bears a form of curse, the dreadful meaning 
of which I have learned to understand with time. 
It reads: — 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 105 


“Tf any wicked person violates this tomb, may he 
die last of all his race /” 

As an archeologist I have opened tombs and re- 
moved their ashes, in order to collect from them 
shreds of cloth, metal ornaments, and various gems, 
But I did this with a scientific curiosity, not lacking 
reverence and pity. May the curse cut on the tomb 
of a martyr, by one of the early disciples of the 
apostles, never fall upon me! I ought not to fear 
lest I outlive my friends, so long as there are men 
on earth, for there are always some whom one can 
love. 

But the power to love grows weak, and finally is 
lost with age, like every other faculty of man. Ex- 
» ample proves it, and this is what frightens me. Am 
I sure that I have not already suffered in this way ? 
Certainly I should have done so, had not a happy 
meeting rejuvenated me. The poets speak of the 
Fountain of Youth. It exists; it bubbles under the 
earth at our every step, and we pass without drink- 
ing of it! 

The young girl whom I loved, having been mar- 
ried according to the dictates of her heart to a rival, 
grew old, and entered into eternal rest. LL have found 
her daughter; so that my life, which was of no fur- 
ther use, has once more acquired some meaning and 
excuse. 

To-day I “take the sun” as they say in Provence. 
I take it on the terrace of the Luxembourg at the 
foot of the statue of Marguerite of Navarre. It is 
the sunshine of spring, as intoxicating as young 
wine, I sit and ponder. My thoughts escape from 


106 THE CRIME OF 


my head like the foam on a beer-bottle. They are 
light, and their sparkles amuse me. I am dreaming. 
This, I think, is allowable in a man who has pub- 
lished thirty volumes of old texts, and contributed 
for twenty-six. years to the Journal des Savants. 1 
have the satisfaction of knowing that I did my task 
as well as I could, and of having fully exercised the 
ordinary talents with which nature endowed me. 
My efforts have not been entirely in vain, and I have 
contributed my small share to the number of his- 
toric works which will be an honor to this restless 
century. I shall surely be counted among the ten 
or twelve who have revealed to France her literary . 
antiquities. My publication of the poetic works of 
Gautier de Coincy inaugurated a judicious system, 
and made an epoch. The severe serenity of old 
age makes it permissible for me to claim this de 
served reward ; and God, who sees my heart, knows 
whether pride or vanity has any part in the justice 
I render myself. 

But I am weary, my eyes are dim, my hand trem- 
bles, and I see an image of myself in those old men 
of Homer, who, by reason of their feebleness, were 
out of the combats, and who, seated along the ram- 
parts, raised their voices like cicalas in a bower. 

Thus my thoughts were roaming, when three 
young men sat down near me.,J do not know 
whether each came in three $a %, like La Fon- 
taine’s monkey, but the three certainly sat down on 
a dozen chairs! I took great pleasure in watching 
them, not that there was anything extraordinary 
about them, but because they had that happy, joy- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 107 


ous air that belongs to youth. They were college — 
men; I was sure of it, perhaps less from the books ~ 
in their hands than from the character of their faces s. 
\For all who devote themselves to intellectual pur- 
suits are recognizable at first sight by an indescrib- 
able something which is common to all of them. [1 
am very fond of young people; and these pleased 
me, in spite of certain wild and annoying ways that 
vividly recalled my own student days. But they did 
not wear their hair long, as we did, over velvet 
doublets. They did not walk, as we did, with a 
death’s head, or cry out, as we did, “ Hell and dam- 
nation!” They were correctly dressed, and neither 
their costume nor their language was at all sugges- 
tive of the Middle Ages. 

I must add that they had keen eyes for the women 
who passed on the terrace, and that they showed 
their admiration of some of them in rather lively 
language. But their ideas on this subject did not 
go so far as to compel me to leave my seat. Be- 
sides, when young men are studious, I do not grudge 
them their fun. 

One of them made a witty remark about some 
girl: — 

“ What's that?” cried the smallest and darkest of 
the three, with a slight Gascon accent. “Let us 
physiologists occupy ourselves with living matter.. 
And you, Gélis, who, like all your archzxological 
friends, live only in the past, why don’t you occupy 
yourself with those stone women who are your con- 
temporaries ?” 

He pointed across to the statues of the ladies of 


mI 


108 THE CRIME OF 


ancient France that rose in a white semicircle under 
the trees along the terrace. This by-play, trifling 
in itself, showed me at least that the one called 
Gélis was a student in the Ecole, des Chartes. 
From the rest of the conversation, I learned that his 
silent, sarcastic neighbor, light complexioned and as 
pale as a shadow, was Boulmier, his fellow-student. 
Gélis and the future doctor (I hope he may become. 
one some day) talked together with much liveliness 
and wit. In the midst of the most serious specula- 
tions, they played on words and perpetrated jokes 
after the absurd style characteristic of wits — I mean 
they got off prodigious absurdities. I need not add, 
need I, that they scorned to maintain anything but - 
the most colossal paradoxes.) They used all their 
imagination to make themselves ridiculous, and all 
their logic to support the opposite of common-sense. 
| Good for them! | I do not like young people to be 
too sensible. ‘ 

The medical student looked at the book that 
Boulmier had in his hand. 

“What,” said he, “you reading Michelet!” 

“ Yes,” replied Boulmier seriously ; “ I like novels.” 

Gélis, who excelled the others by his handsome, 
slender figure, his imperious bearing and ready flow 
of words, took the book, glanced over a few pages, 
and said, — 

“ Michelet has always had a tendency for the ro- 
mantic. He shed sentimental tears over Maillard, 
that nice little man who introduced scribbling into 
the massacres of September. But, as tenderness 
leads to madness, behold him suddenly grown furi- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 109 


ous at his victims. What can you expect? This is 
modern sentimentality. We pity the assassin, and 
consider the victim as unpardonable. In his later 
manner, Michelet has become more Michelet than 
ever. It no longer has any common-sense in it. It 
is amazing! Neither art nor science, neither criti- 
cism nor narrative. [Only outbursts of anger, faint- 
ing-fits, an epileptic seizure, on account of facts which 
he never deigns to expound. } Infantile shrieks, wo- 
man’s unreasonable cravings, and astyle, my friends, 
with never a familiar commonplace in it! Lit is as- 
tonishing!” 

He returned the book to his friend. 

“ Their fun is amusing,” said I to myself, “and not > 
so devoid of reason as it seems. This young man, 
in his jesting way, has keenly hit the weak point in - 
the armor.” 

But the student from Provence declared that his- 
tory was nothing but a despicable and thoroughly 
rhetorical study. His idea was that the only real 
history was the natural history of man. Michelet 
was on the right road when he came upon the fistula 
of Louis XIV., but he fell back almost immediately 
into the old rut. 

Having given expression to this wise idea, the 
young physiologist rose, and joined a group of pass- 
ing friends. The two archeological students, having 
fewer acquaintances in the garden, —it was a long 
distance from the rue Paradis-gu-Marais, — remained 
behind, and began talking of their studies. Gélis, 
who was near the end of his third year, was prepar- 
ing a thesis, the subject of which he told with boy- 


f 


i? 


— 


110 THE CRIME OF 


ish enthusiasm. The subject seemed to me a good 
one, especially as I had recently thought it my duty 
to treat a notable part of it. It was the M/onasii- 
cum gallicanum. 

The young erudite (I give him this name as an 
omen) was planning to mention all the plates en- 
graved about 1690 for the work that Dom Michel 
Germain would have had published had it not been 
for the one single obstacle that one scarcely ever 
foresees, and never avoids: 

Dom Michel Germain at least left his manuscript 
complete and in good order when he died. Shall I 
do as much with mine? But that is not the ques- 
tion. 

Monsieur Gélis, so far as I could understand, pro- 
posed to consecrate an archeological notice to each 
abbey pictured by the humble engravers of Dom 
Michel Germain. 

His companion asked him if he was acquainted 
with all the manuscripts and publications relating 
to the subject. Then, indeed, I strained my ears to 
listen. They spoke first of original sources; and I 
must say that they did it systematically enough, in 
spite of their countless and wretched puns. Then 
they mentioned the works of contemporary criticism. 

“ Have you read,” asked Boulmier, “the notice of 
Courajod?” 

“Good!” said I to myself. 

“ Yes,” answered G&lis; “it is correct.” 

“ Have you read the\article by Tamisey de Lar- 
roque in the Review of Historical Questions ?” 
asked Boulmier. x 







SYLVESTRE BO. = 

“Good!” said I to myself a secon 

“ — answered Gélis; “and it is full of ng 
tion.” 

“ Have you read,” asked Boulmier, “the ‘ Picture ~ 
of the Historical Abbeys of the Benedictines in ai 
1600,’ by Sylvestre Bonnard?” 

* Good!” I exclaimed a third time. 

“Mercy, no!” replied Gélis. “Bonnard is a 
fool.” 

I turned my head, and saw that night’s shadows 
were creeping over where I sat. The air was grow- 
ing damp, and | thought myself very foolish to risk 
taking cold while listening to the impertinent re- 
marks of two young coxcombs. 

“Ha! Ha!” said I to myself, as I rose. “Let 
this young chatterbox write his thesis and support 
it. He will find that my colleague Quicherat, or some 
other professor of the school, will show him his crass 
ignorance. I have good reason to call him a black- 
guard; and really, in thinking of the matter as I do 
now, what he said about Michelet is intolerable and 
outrageous. The idea! To speak in such a way 
of an old master so full of genius. It is abomi- 
nable! ” 


Afril 17. 

“ Thérése, give me my new hat, my best coat, and 
my silver-headed cane.” 

But Thérése is as deaf as a coal-sack, and as 
slow as justice. Age is the cause of it. The worst 
of it is, that she thinks Ler hearing good and her 
steps agile; moreover, she is proud of her sixty 











II HE CRIME OF 

est housekeeping, and she serves her 
r with the most watchful despotism. 

t did I say—?... Here she is unwilling 
ive me my silver-headed cane, for fear of my 
osing it. It is true that I quite frequently leave 
umbrellas and sticks in the ’buses and book-shops. 
But I have a good reason to-day for carrying my old 
cane, the carved silver head of which represents 
Don Quixote galloping with poised lance against 
the wind-mills, while Sancho Panza, his arms raised 
to heaven, begs him in vain to stop. 

This cane is all that I inherited from my uncle, 
Captain Victor, who in his lifetime resembled Don 
Quixote rather than Sancho Panza, and who loved 
blows as naturally as one usually fears them. For 
thirty years I have carried this cane on every mem- 
orable or solemn walk I have taken, and the two 
figures of the knight and the squire inspire and con- 
sole me. I can almost hear them. Don Quixote 
Says to me, — 

“ Think deeply of serious things, and know that 
| thought is the only reality in the world. Lift nature 
| up to your own height, and let the whole world be 

for you but the reflection of your heroic spirit. 
| Fight for honor —this alone is worthy of a man; 


and if you are wounded, spill your blood like gener- 


ous dew, and smile.” / 

And Sancho Panza says in turn, — 

«“ Remain what Heaven made you, brother! Pre- 
fer the crust of bread drying in your wallet to the 
ortolans that are roastidg in the duke’s kitchen. 
Obey your master, whether he be wise or foolish, 


\— 





and do not load your brain with too tibiep useless 
facts. Fear blows; ‘tis tempting God to seek — 
danger.” 

But if the incomparable knight and his unparal- 
leled squire exist as merely figures on the head of my | 
cane, they themselves are in my innermost conscience. ~~ _ 
All of us have a Don Quixote and a Sancho within 
us, to whom we listen; and even while Sancho per- 
suades us, it is Don Quixote whom we must admire. 

But a truce to this nonsense! Let us go to Ma- 
dame de Gabry about a matter which is of more 
importance than the ordinary affairs of life. 


ns 


ry 


The same day. 

I found Madame de Gabry dressed in black, and 
just buttoning her gloves. 

“I am ready,” said she. 

Ready! I have always found her so, on every 
occasion for doing good. 

After a few pleasant words regarding the good 
health of her husband, who had gone for a walk, 
we went down-stairs, and stepped into the carriage. 
I know not what secret spell I feared to break by 
speaking ; but we drove without a word along the 
wide, deserted boulevard, studying the shops where 
crosses, gravestones, and funeral-wreaths were wait- 
ing for their purchaser. The cab stopped at the 
final bourn of the land of the living, before the 
gate, on which are graven words of hope. 

“Follow me,” said Madame de Gabry, whose 
height I now noticed for the first time. We went 
down a walk bordered by cypress-trees, then fol- 


114 THE CRIME OF 


lowed a narrow path between the tombs. Finally 
we stopped in front of a flat stone. 

“It is here,” said she; and she knelt down. 

In spite of myself I could not help noticing the 
unconsciously graceful way in which this Christian 
woman fell on her knees, letting the folds of her 
gown spread about her as they chanced. With the 
exception of two Polish exiles one evening in a de- 
serted church of Paris, never had I seen any woman 
kneel so unaffectedly, and in such utter lack of self- 
consciousness. 

The picture flashed through my mind like lighten- 
ing; and then I saw nothing but the low slab on 
which was cut the name — CLEMENTINE. What 
I felt was something profound and intangible and 
inexpressible, unless by the sound of exquisite music. 

I heard instruments of a celestial sweetness mak- 
ing melody in my old heart. With the solemn tones 
of a funeral hymn were mingled the muted notes of 
a love-song, for into the same feeling my soul min- 
gled the solemn sadness of the present and the well- 
known graces of the past. 

I cannot say whether or not we had been before 
the tomb of Clémentine for long, when Madame 
de Gabry rose. We crossed the cemetery without 
speaking, but when we were once more among living 
men my tongue became unfettered. 

‘As I followed you,” I said to Madame de Gabry, 
“T was thinking of those legendary angels whom 
one meets on the mysterious borders of life and 
death. The grave to whi~h you have taken me — 
and I was as ignorant of it as of almost all else 


~ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 115 


concerning her whom it covers—recalled certain 
unparalleled emotions of existence, comparable in 
the dulness of this life to a light on a dark road. 
The farther one goes, the farther away is the gleam. 
I am almost at the foot of the last slope, and yet I 
see the light as distinctly as ever every time I look 


back. 

TYou, madame, who knew Clémentine as she 
was, with white hair, a wife and mother, you cannot 
imagine her as she was when I saw her, a fair-haired 
young girl, with cheeks like roses and skin so white! 
Since you have been good enough to be my guide, 
I think I should tell you, dear madame, what feel- 
ings this grave aroused. | Recollections are crowd- 
ing into my heart. I am like an old, gnarled, and 
moss-grown oak, which sways its branches, and 
awakens nests of singing birds. Unfortunately the 
song of my birds is as old as the world, and can 
amuse no one but myself.” ) 

Tell me your recollections,” said Madame de 
Gabry_} “I cannot read your books, for they are 
written for scholars; but I like to listen when you 
talk, because you make the most ordinary things 
in life interesting. Speak to me as if I were an old 


woman. {This morning I found three white hairs ) 


on my head.” 

“Behold them come without regret, madame,” 
said I. | “Time deals gently only with those who 
take it gently, And when, in a few years, a light 
silver foam will float on the ripples of your dark 
hair, you will be clothed in a new beauty, less vivid, 
but more touching than the first, and you will see 


cs ta 


116 THE CRIME OF 


that your husband will love your white hair just as 
much as he did the black curl which you gave him 
when he married you, and which he wears in a locket, 
as if it were something sacred. These boulevards 
are wide and but little frequented. We can talk“at 
our ease as we drive along. I will tell you first how 
I became acquainted with Clémentine’s father. But 
pray expect nothing extraordinary, nothing remark- 
able; for if you do you will be greatly disappointed, { 

“Monsieur de Lessay occupied the second story 
of an old house on the Avenue de I|’Observatoire. 
The plaster facade, ornamented with antique busts, 
and the great rambling garden near it, were the first 
images that stamped themselves on my childish ¢ 
eyes, and in all probability they will be the last 
which, when the inevitable day arrives, will fade 
from under my heavy lids. For in this house I was 
born. In this garden I played, and learned to feel 
and know some fragments of this old universe. 
Happy hours! sacred hours! when the pure soul 
discovers the world revealing itself by a kindly light 
and with a mysterious charm. For, madame, the 
universe is but the reflection of our own soul. 7 

“ My mother was a being happily endowed. ‘sid 
rose with the sun, like the birds; and she resembled 
them by her domestic industry, by her maternal in- 
stinct, by the necessity which she felt to be always 
singing, and by a sort of graceful abruptness, all of 
which I thoroughly appreciated, though I was only 
a child. She was the soul of the house, filling it 
with her well-regulated and happy energy. My 
father was as slow as she was sprightly, I well re- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 117 


call his placid face, over which now and then would 
pass an ironical smile. He was weary, and he loved 
his weariness. Seated near the window in his deep 
armchair, he used to read from morning till night. 
From him I inherited my love of books. I have in 
my library a Mably and.a Raynal which he anno- 
tated with his own hand from beginning to end. 
But it was not to be expected that he would trouble 
himself about practical affairs. When my mother 
strove by gentle tact to draw him out from his indif- 
ference, he shook his head with that inexorable 
sweetness which is the strength of weak characters. 
He was the despair of the poor woman who had no 
manner of sympathy with this contemplative wisdom, 
and understood nothing of life but its daily cares 
and the happy work of each hour. She thought he 
was ill, and feared that he would grow worse. But | 
his apathy arose from another cause. 

“ My father entered the navy department under 
Monsieur Decrés in 1801, and showed marked talent 
as administrator. There was a great activity at that 
time in connection with the navy, and in 1805 my 
father became chief of the second administrative 
division. That year the emperor, to whom he had 
been recommended by the minister, ordered him to 
draw up a report on\the organization of the English” 
navy. This work was stamped with a deeply lib- 
eral and philosophical spirit, though the writer him- 
self was not aware of the fact. It was not finished 
until 1807, about eighteen months after the defeat 
of Admiral Villeneuve at Trafalgar. Napoleon, who 
after that ill-fated day never again wished to hear 


118 THE CRIME OF 


a ship mentioned, wrathfully glanced over the pages, 
and then threw the report into the fire, * crying, 
‘Phrases, nothing but phrases. I have already said 
that I do not like ideologists!’ They brought back 
word to my father that the emperor was so angry 
that he had ground the manuscript down into the fire 
with his boot. At all events, it was his habit when 
he was irritated to poke the fire with his, boot until 
the very sole was scorched. 

“My father never recovered from this disgrace, 
and the failure of all his efforts to do his duty was 
certainly the cause of the apathy into which he fell 
later. Nevertheless, Napoleon, on his return from 
the Island of Elba, sent for him, and ordered him — 
to draw up, in a patriotic and liberal spirit, procla- 
mations and bulletins for the fleet. After Waterloo, 
my father, more saddened than surprised, went into 
retirement, and was left unmolested. Only it was 
generally said of him that he was Jacobin and 
blood-thirsty, a man to be avoided. 

“My mother’s elder brother, Victor Maldent, cap- 
tain of infantry, retired on half pay in 1814 and dis- 

-= missed in 1815, added, by his wrong attitude, to the 
difficulties which the fall of the emperor had brought 
on my father. Captain Victor noised it about in 
the cafés and in public balls that the Bourbons had 
sold France to the Cossacks. He showed every one 
a tricolored cockade that was hidden in his hat- 
lining ; he carried with great ostentation a cane, the 
twisted handle of which had been wrought so that 
the shadow it made was the silhouette of the em- 
peror. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 119 


« Unless, madame, you have seen certain litho- 
_graphs by Charlet, you can form no idea of my uncle 
™~ Victor, and how he looked in his tight-fitting frogged 
coat, with the cross of honor and some violets on his 
chest, as he strolled up and down the garden of the 
Tuileries with that fierce dignity of his. Idleness 
and intemperance had the worst possible effect on 
his political passions. He used to insult people 
whom he saw reading the Quot¢idienne or the Dra- 
peau blanc, and force them to fight with him. In 
this way he had the grief and shame of wounding a 
lad only sixteen years old in a duel. In short, my 
uncle Victor was the opposite of a wise man; and as 
he used every day to come to our house for his 
breakfast and dinner, his evil reputation clung to our 
fireside. My poor father suffered deeply from the 
eccentricity of his guest ; but as he was kind-hearted, 
he said nothing, and opened his house to the captain, 
who despised him cordially in return. 

“ What I am telling you now, madame, I learned 
later. At that time my uncle filled me with the 
greatest enthusiasm, and I determined that some 
day I would be as much like him as possible. One 
fine morning, in order to begin the desired resem- 
blance, I struck an attitude, my hands on my hips, 
and swore like an infidel. 

“ My good mother gave me such a stinging slap 
on my cheek, that for a moment I stood perfectly 
stupefied, before bursting into tears. I can still see 
the armchair, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, be- 
hind which that day I shed countless tears. 

“I was at that time a very little fellow. One 


120 THE CRIME OF 


morning my father raised me in his arms as was his 
habit, and smiled at me with that touch of irony 
which gave a piquant look to his gentle expression. 
While I sat on his knees, playing with his long white 
hair, he told me things which I did not understand 
very well, but which interested me deeply, simply 
because they were mysterious. I think, although I 
am not positive, that on that morning he was telling 
me the story of the little King of Yvetot, as we find 
it in the song. Suddenly we heard a great noise, 
and the windows rattled. My father let me slip to 
his feet, and with trembling arms uplifted, he shook 
his fists. His face was pallid and lifeless looking, his 
eyes preternaturally large. He strove to speak, ~ 
but his teeth chattered. At last he muttered, ‘ They 
have shot him!’ I did not know what he meant, 
and I felt a vague terror. Afterwards I learned 
that he was speaking of Marshal Ney, killed on the 
7th of December, 1815, beneath the wall which en- 
closed an empty lot adjoining our house. 

“ About this time I often used to meet on the 
stairs an old man (he was not so very old perhaps), 
whose little black eyes shone with wonderful bright- 
ness from his calm, swarthy face. To me he did 
not seem alive, or at least it did not seem as if he 
were alive like other men. At Monsieur Denon’s, 
where my father had taken me, I had seen a 
mummy, brought from Egypt; and I really thought 
that Monsieur Denon’s mummy awoke when it was 
alone, crept out of its gilded case, put on a drab- 
colored coat and a powdered wig, and that then it 
became Monsieur de Lessay. And even to-day, my 


SYZLVESTRE BONNARD. 121 


dear madame, although I repel the idea as without 
foundation, I must confess that Monsieur de Lessay " 
greatly resembled Monsieur Denon’s mummy. This 
is equivalent to saying that this man was an object 
of terror and at the same time of fascination to me. 

In reality, Monsieur de Lessay was a small gen- 
tleman and a great philosopher. A disciple of 
Mably and Rousseau, he flattered himself that he 
was unprejudiced, and this pretension was in itself 
a great prejudice. | He detested fanaticism, but he 
possessed that of tolerance. \I_speak, madame, of 
a contemporary of a bygone age. I fear that I may 
not be understood, and I am sure that I do not in- 
terest you. It is all sofar away from us! But I 
am abridging as much as possible. Besides, I did 
not promise you anything interesting, and you could 
not expect to hear of great adventures in the life 
of Sylvestre Bonnard.” 

Madame de Gabry begged me to go on, and I did 
so in these words : — 

“ Monsieur de Lessay was curt with men and cour- 
teous to women. He used to kiss my mother’s hand, } 

{though she was not accustomed to such gallantry, 

the customs of the Republic and the Empire being 
very different. Through him I touched the age o 
‘Louis XVI.{ Monsieur de Lessay was a ixsac, 
and no one, I belieye, was prouder than he to dis- 
cuss the face of the earth. Under the Ancient Ré- 
gime he had done something in agriculture from a 
philosophical. standpoint, and in this way consumed 
his estates to their last acre. No longer having an 
inch of land left to call his own, he took possession 


T22 THE CRIME OF 


of the whole earth, and made a wonderful number 
of maps, based on the accounts of travellers. 

‘But as he had been nourished on the purest 
marrow of the encyclopedia, he was not satisfied 
with enclosing human beings within so many degrees, 
minutes, and seconds of latitude and longitude. He 
looked after their happiness, alas! It is noticeable, 
madame, that men who have looked after the hap- 
piness of people in general have made their own 
household very unhappy.’ Monsieur de Lessay, a 
greater geometrician than Dalembert, a greater 
philosopher than Jean-Jacques,| was yet a greater 
royalist than Louis XVIII. But his love for the 
king was nothing in comparison to his hatred for 
the emperor. He took part in the conspiracy of 
Georges against the First Consul; but the court, 
having forgotten him, or thinking him of no conse- 
quence, he was not included in the list of the guilty. 
He never forgave Bonaparte for this insult; and he 
called him the Ogre of Corsica, to whom, he said, he 
would never intrust a regiment, because he found 
him such a contemptible soldier. 

“In 1820 Monsieur de Lessay, who had been a 
widower for many years, married again, at the age 
of nearly sixty. His wife was a very young woman, 
and he set her to work, without mercy, on his maps. 
After a few years of marriage, she died in giving 
birth to a daughter. My mother nursed her in her 
short illness, and saw that the child wanted nothing. 
This child was named Clémentine. 

“The relations of my family with Monsieur de 
Lessay begin with that birth and that death. As I 


SYLKESTRE BONNARD. 123 


was just then emerg’ng from the first years of child- 
hood, I was beginning to grow big and stupid. I 
lost the charming gift of insight and feeling. Things 
no longer caused me the delightful surprise that is 
the charm of youth. So I have no remembrance of 
the years which followed the birth of Clémentine. I 
know only that within a few months I experienced 
a grief, the mere thought of which still makes my 
heart ache. I lost my mother. A great silence, a 
great coldness, and a great shadow, suddenly filled 
our home. 

“T fell into a sort of stupor. My father sent me 
to college, but I had great difficulty in rousing my- 
self from my torpor. 

“ However, I was not altogether an idiot, and 
my professors taught me almost all they thought 
necessary; that is, a little Greek, and much Latin. 
I had no acquaintances, except with the ancients. I 
learned to esteem Miltiades, and to admire Themis- 
tocles; became familiar with Quintus Fabius, so far 
as any one could be familiar with such a great con- 
sul. Proud of these lofty relationships, I no longer 
condescended to look at little Clémentine and her 
old father; besides, they set out one fine day for 
Normandy, nor did I give a thought to their return. 

“But they did return, madame, they did return! 
Ye Influences of Heaven, ye Forces of Nature, ye 
Mysterious Powers that give to man the ability to 
love, you know how I again saw Clémentine! They “ 
entered our sad home. Monsieur de Lessay no lon- 
ger wore a wig. Bald, with a few grizzled locks on 
his purple temples, he looked the picture of robust 


124 THE CRIME -OF- 


old age. But the beautiful, glowing creature whom 
I saw on his arm, and whose presence lighted up 
our old faded drawing-room, was not a vision —no! 
it was Clémentine! I am telling the truth. Her 
blue eyes, blue as the flowers of the periwinkle, 
seemed to me supernatural; and even to-day I can- 
not believe that those two living gems can have suf- 
fered the trials of life and the decay of death. She 
was somewhat embarrassed when she met my father, 
for she did not recognize him. Her cheeks had 
a soft, becoming color; and her parted lips wore a 
smile that made one think of the Infinite, probably 
because it betrayed no particular thought, and ex- 
pressed only the joy of living and the delight of be- 
ing beautiful. Her face shone beneath a pink hood 
like a jewel in an open casket. She wore a cache- 
mire shawl over a white muslin dress, which was 
plaited at the waist, and which came to the tops of 
her reddish-brown boots. Do not smile, madame; 
that was the style then, and I am not sure if our 
modern fashions have as much simplicity, fresh- 
ness, and graceful propriety. 

“ Monsieur de Lessay told us, that, as he had be- 
gun the publication of an historical atlas, he in- 
tended to live in Paris once more, and would be 
glad to re-occupy his old apartment if it was vacant. 
My father asked Mademoiselle de Lessay if she was 
glad to be in the capital. Yes, she was; for she 
smiled still more radiantly. She smiled at the win- 
dows that opened on the shining green garden; 
she smiled at the bronze Marius seated among the 
ruins of Carthage on the top of the clock; she 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 125 


smiled on the old yellow velvet chairs, and on the 
poor student who dared not lift his eyes to her. 
From that day, how I loved her! 

«“ But here we are in the rue de Sévres, and soon 
we shall see your windows. I ama poor story-teller ; 
and if ever I were to try the impossible and under- 
take a novel, I should never succeed. I have spun 
out a long introduction for a story which I am going 
to tell you in a few words; for there is a certain 
delicacy, a certain feeling of the heart, that would 
be shocked by an old man calmly enlarging upon 
the sentiments of even the most innocent love. 

“Let us drive for a few moments along this bou- 
levard, with its row of convents, and my story will 
be finished by the time we reach that little steeple 
yond 
se, sine de Lessay, learning that I was just fin- 
ishing my studies at the Ecole des Chartes, thought 
me capable of working with him on his historical 
atlas. The point at issue was to determine, on a se- 
ries of maps, what this philosophic graybeard called 
‘the vicissitudes of empires’ from Noah down to 
Charlemagne. Monsieur de Lessay had stored away 
in his head every error of the eighteenth century 
concerning antiquities. 

“As to history, I belonged to the new and ad- 
vanced school, and was at an age when one does not 
know how to pretend. The way in which the old 
man understood, or rather failed to understand, the 
barbarous ages, his obstinacy in seeing in remote 
antiquity, ambitious princes, hypocritical and cov- 
etous priests, virtuoiis citizens, poet-philosophers and 


ft See 


* 126 THE CRIME OF 


others, who never existed save in the romances of 
Marmontel, caused me great unhappiness, and _ in- 
spired me at first to raise every sort of objection, 
—reasonable, no doubt, but perfectly useless, and 
at times dangerous. Monsieur de Lessay was very 
irascible, and Clémentine was very beautiful. Be- 
tween the two I spent hours of torture and delight. 
I was in love; I was a coward; and soon I conceded 
to him all that he demanded regarding the histori- 
cal and political figure that this earth, destined later 
to bear Clémentine, offered in the time of Abraham, 
Menes, and Deucalion. 

“As we finished drawing the maps, Mademoiselle 
de Lessay tinted them in water-colors. Leaning 
over the table, she held her brush between two fin- 
gers; a shadow fell from her eyelashes upon her 
cheeks, and bathed her half-closed eyes in a soft 
shade. Occasionally she would raise her head, and 
I saw her parted lips. There was such expression 
in her beauty that she could not breathe without 
seeming to sigh, and her most ordinary movements 
filled my soul with dreamy ecstasy. As I gazed at 
her, I agreed with Monsieur de Lessay that Jupiter 
ruled once as a despot over the mountainous regions 
of Thessaly, and that. Orpheus was unwise in in- 
trusting to the clergy the teaching of philosophy. 
To this day I do not know whether I was a coward 
or a hero when I yielded these points to the obsti- 
nate old man. 

“ Mademoiselle de Lessay, I must confess, did 
not pay much attention to me. But her indifference 
seemed so reasonable and so natural that I did not 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. I 79 


think of complaining about it. I suffered on ac- 
count of it, but unconsciously I was full of hope. 
We were then only at the first Assyrian Empire. 
‘Monsieur de Lessay came every evening for a 
cup of coffee with my father. I cannot understand 
in what way they were congenial, for never were two 
natures so completely opposed to each other. My 


father had few admirations and a forgiving soul. © ~ 


As he grew older, he came to hate all exaggeration. 
He clothed his ideas with a thousand delicate shades, 
and never stated an opinion save with all sorts of 
reservations. : 

“ These habits of a gentle mind roused the dry, 
hard old gentleman whom moderation in an adver- 
sary never disarmed — quite the contrary! Iscented 
danger; the danger was Napoleon. My father cher- 
ished no affection for him; but having worked under 
his orders, he did not like to hear him abused, espe- 
cially to the advantage of the Bourbons, against 
whom he had deep grievances. 

“ Monsieur de Lessay, more of a Voltairean and a 
legitimist than ever, credited Bonaparte with being’ 
the source of every political, social, and religious 
evil. }In this state of affairs Captain Victor was my 
greatest anxiety. That dreadful uncle of mine had 
grown perfectly intolerable since his sister was no 
longer there to quiet him. The harp of David was 
broken, and Saul was given over to his madness.. 
The fall of Charles X. augmented the old Bonapart- 
ist’s audacity, and he did all sorts of wild things. 
He seldom came to our house, for it had grown too 
gloomy for him; but occasionally at dinner-time we 


£28 THE CRIME OF 


saw him come in, covered with flowers, like a mau- 
soleum. Usually he sat down to table swearing in 
his deep voice, and, as he ate, boasting of the success 
which, as an old veteran warrior, he had enjoyed with 
the ladies. Then, when dinner was finished, he would 
fold up his napkin in the shape of a bishop’s bon- 
net, swallow half a decanter of brandy, and take his 
departure as hastily as if he feared to spend, with- 
out drinking, even a moment alone with an old phi- 
losopher and a young scholar. I knew well enough 
that if ever he should meet Monsieur de Lessay, all 
would be lost. 

“The day came, madame! 

“On that occasion the captain was quite hidden 
by his flowers, and looked so much like a monument 
erected in memory of the glories of the Empire that 
any one would have longed to put a wreath of im- 
mortelles on each of his arms. He was in unusu- 
ally good humor; and the first person who benefited 
by his happy disposition was the cook, whom he 
seized about the waist just as she was placing the 
roast on the table. 

« After dinner he pushed aside the decanter offered 
him, saying that he would burn the brandy in his 
coffee. I asked him tremblingly if he would not 
rather have his coffee at once. My uncle Victor 
was suspicious and by no means dull. The haste 
which I displayed seemed to him in poor taste; for 
he looked hard at me, and said, — 

“¢ Patience, nephew. It is not the place of the 
child of the regiment to sound the retreat. The 
devil! You are in great haste, Master Pedant, to 
see if I have spurs on my heels,’ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 129 


“It was evident that the captain had suspected 
that I wanted him to go. Knowing this, I was cer- 
tain that he would stay, and he did! The slightest 
details of that evening are indelibly impressed on 


my memory. My uncle was perfectly jovial. The ° 


mere idea of his being in the way kept him in good 
humor. He told us in fine barracks’ style, wa foi, 
about a monk, a trumpeter, and five bottles of Cham- 
bertin —a story that would be greatly enjoyed in a 
garrison, but which I would not attempt to tell you, 
madame, even if I had the time to recall it. When 
we went into the drawing-room, the captain called 
our attention to the bad condition of our andirons, 
and discoursed in a knowing way on the use of trip- 
oli for polishing brass, Not a word of politics. He 
was conducting himself cautiously. Eight o’clock 
struck from the ruins of Carthage. It was time for 
Monsieur de Lessay to arrive. A few moments 
later he entered the room with his daughter. The 
evening’s usual routine began. Clémentine occu- 
pied herself with her embroidery near the lamp, the 
shade of which enveloped her pretty head with soft 
shadow, and threw a light upon her fingers that 
made them almost luminous.’ Monsieur de Lessay 
spoke of a comet predicted by the astronomers, and 
advanced some theories which, though they were ex- 
travagant, showed some intellectual culture. My 


father, who knew considerable about astronomy, ex- ' 


— 


pressed a few sensible ideas, ending with his eternal, | 


‘But what do I know, after all?’ 
“In my turn I gave the opinion of our neighbor 
in the observatory, the well-known Arago. Uncle 


130 THE CRIME OF 


Victor declared that comets have an influence on 
the quality of wines, and in order to uphold his the- 
ory, cited a rollicking tavern story. I was so pleased 
with this conversation, that, calling to my aid my 
latest readings, I strove to prolong it by a lengthy 
exposition of the chemical constitution of the clus- 
ters of nebulz which, scattered through celestial 
space for millions of leagues, could be contained in 
a bottle. My father, somewhat surprised at my elo- 
quence, looked at me with that calm, ironical ex- 
pression of his. But we cannot always be in the 
clouds. Then, while my eyes rested on Clémentine, 
I spoke of a comet of diamonds that I had admired 
the night before in a jeweller’s showcase. This was 
a most unfortunate inspiration on my part. 

““¢ My dear nephew,’ cried Captain Victor, ‘ your 
comet was not equal to that which sparkled on the 
head of the Empress Josephine when she came to 
Strasbourg to distribute crosses to the army.’ 

“ «That little Josephine was very fond of jewelry,’ 
said Monsieur de Lessay between two sips of coffee, 
‘and I do not blame her. There was some good 
in her, frivolous as she was. She was a Tascher, 
and it was a great honor to Buonaparte when she 
married him. A Tascher is not much, but a Buona- 
parte is nothing at all.’ 

‘¢ What do you mean by that, Monsieur le Mar- 
quiS ?’ demanded Captain Victor. 

“¢T am no marquis,’ dryly replied Monsieur de 
Lessay; ‘and what I mean is, that Buonaparte 
would have been well matched had he married one 
of those cannibal women Captain Cook describes 


t 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 131 


in his voyages, — naked, tattooed, a ring in her nose, 
and in the habit of devouring with ecstasy decayed 
human bodies.’ 

“T knew it, thought I to myself, and in my anguish 
(oh poor human heart!) my first thought was to no- 
tice the correctness of my predictions. I must say 
that the captain’s reply had in it a touch of sublim- 
ity. Placing his hands on his hips, he measured 
Monsieur de Lessay scornfully from head to foot, 
and said, — 

“« Napoleon, sir,| had another wife besides Jose- 
phine and Marie Louise. You are not acquainted 
with this companion, but I have seen her close at 
hand. She wears an azure mantle dotted with 
stars; she is crowned with laurels; the cross of 
honor sparkles on her breast. Her name is Glory.’ 

“ Monsieur de Lessay put his cup on the mantel- 
piece, and said quietly, — 

“*Your Buonaparte was a scoundrel.’ 

“My father rose calmly,-and slowly raising his 
hands, said very gently to Monsieur de Lessay, — 

«* Whatever the man may have been who died at 
Saint Helena, I worked ten years in his government, 
and my brother-in-law was thrice wounded under his 
eagles. I beg you, my dear sir, my friend, not to 
forget this in future.’ 

“That which the captain’s lofty and burlesque 
impertinences could not do, my father’s courteous 
remonstrance accomplished at once, —it made 
Monsieur de Lessay furiously angry. 

1 In the original the captain calls his opponent ‘“ Monsieur 


le Vidame” (Vidame, a sprig of nobility) in contradistinction 
to his former use of the title marquis. 


132 | THE CRIME OF 

“¢T forgot,’ cried he, livid with rage, his teeth 
clinched, his lips foaming ; ‘I was wrong. The her- 
ring-cask always smells .of herring ; and when one 
has been in the service of scoundrels ’ — 

Ce this word the captain sprang at his throat. 
Had it not been for his daughter and me, I think 
he would have been choked to death. My father, 
somewhat paler than usual, stood with folded arms, 
watching the spectacle with an indescribable ex- 
pression of pity. What followed was sadder still. 
— but of what use is it to dwell on the anger of 
two old men? At last I succeeded in separating 
them. Monsieur de Lessay beckoned to his daugh- 
ter, and went out. She followed him. I ran to the — 
stairs after her. 

“«¢ Mademoiselle,’ I cried, distracted, pressing her 
hand, ‘I love you! I love you!’ 

“For an instant she held my hand in hers, her 
lips half opened. What was she going to say? 
But all at once, raising her eyes to her father, who 
was ascending the stairs, she withdrew her hand, 
and made me a gesture of farewell. I never saw 
her again. Her father took rooms near the Pan- 
- théon, in an apartment which he had rented for the 
sale of his historical atlas. He died there a few 
months later from a stroke of apoplexy. His daugh- 
ter, I was told, went to live at Caen with an aged 
lady, a relative of hers. There, some years later, she 
married a bank-clerk, the Noél Alexandre who be- 
came so rich and died so poor. As for me, madame, 
I live alone in peace by myself. My life, free from 
great sorrows as well as from great joys, has been 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 133 


tolerably happy. But for years I could not, with- 
out a great pang at heart, see an empty armchair 
near mine on a winter evening. Last year I heard 
through you, who knew her, of her old age and 
death. I met her daughter at your house. I have 
seen her; but I will not say as yet, as did the aged 
man of the Scriptures, ‘And now, O Lord, lettest 
thou thy servant depart in peace.’ If an old fellow 
like me can be of use to any one, I should like, with 
your help, to devote my last years to this orphan 
gir v4 

I uttered these words on the vestibule of Ma- 
dame de Gabry’s home; and I was about to take 
leave of this kind friend, when she said to me, — 

“ Dear friend, I cannot aid you in this as much 
as I could wish. / Jeanne is an orphan and a minor. 
You cannot do anything for her without her guard- 
ian’s consent.” 

“Ah! I never thought for an instant that Jeanne 
might have a guardian.” 

Madame de Gabry looked at me with ill-concealed 
surprise. She had not expected to find the old man 
quite so simple-minded. 

“Jeanne Alexandre’s guardian,” said she, “is 
Maitre Mouche, a notary at Levallois-Perret. I fear 
that you will not get on very well with him. He is 
a serious man.” 

“Ah! good Heavens!” I cried; “whom do you 
think I should get on with at my age, if not with 
serious people ? ” 

She gently smiled, with a mischievous expression 
in her eyes, just as my father used to do, and re- 


plied, — 


134 THE CRIME OF 


“With those who, like you, are innocent and gen- 
erous. Monsieur Mouche is not exactly of that kind. 
_ He is artful and light-fingered. Although I find lit- 

tle pleasure in meeting him, we will go together, if 
you wish, and ask permission to see Jeanne, whom 
he has put in a boarding-school at les Ternes, where 
she is very unhappy.” 

We appointed a day. I kissed Madame de Ga- 
bry’s hand, and we parted. 

* May 2-5. 

I have seen Maitre Mouche, Jeanne’s guardian, in 
his office. Small, thin, and dried-up, his complexion 
looks as if it were made of the dust of his old pa- 
pers. He is a spectacled animal, for one could not — 
imagine him without his glasses. I have heard 
Maitre Mouche speak; he has the voice of a rattle, 
and he uses carefully chosen terms. I should have 
liked it better if he had not chosen them at all. I 
have observed Maitre Mouche; he is ceremonious, 
and watches one from the corner of his eye, behind 
his spectacles. ’ 

“Maitre Mouche is happy, he tells us he is de- 
lighted, at our interest in his ward. But he does 
/not think that we are on this earth in order to amuse 
.ourselves. No, he does not think so; and I must 
say, in all justice, that one is of his opinion, when 
with him, so little enjoyment does he inspire. He 
.fears that it would be giving a false and pernicious 
idea of life to his dear ward if he allowed her too 
much pleasure. That is why he asks Madame de 
Gabry to invite her but seldom to her home. 

We left the dusty notary and his dusty office, 


SYLVESTRE BONiJARD. 135 


with his consent given in due form (everything that 
Maitre Mouche does is in due forny) to see Made- 
moiselle Jeanne Alexandre the first. Thursday of 
every month, at the home of her instructor, Made- 
moiselle Préfére, rue Demours, at les Tert es. 

The first Thursday in May I set out ‘or Made- 
moiselle Préfére’s, whose establishment 1 saw from 
afar by its sign in blue letters. The blue tint was the 
first indication I had of Mlle. Virginie Préfére’s tem- 
perament, which I afterwards had ample opportunity 
of studying. A scared-looking maid-servant took 
my card, and left me, without a word of hope, in an 
icy parlor, where I noticed that stale odor charac- 
teristic of the dining-rooms of boarding-schools. 
The floor of this room had been waxed with such 
pitiless energy that I stood with fear and trembling 
even on the threshold. Happily, however, I noticed 
some small woollen squares that lay on the floor be- 
fore the hair-cloth chairs ; and by stepping from one 
to the other of these carpet islands, I succeeded in 
reaching. the corner of the fireplace, where I sat 


down out of ee) 

Over the mantel-piece in a great gilt frame, there 
hung an Honor List, enrolling in flaming Gethic 
script a long list of names, among which I did not 
have the pleasure of finding Jeanne Alexandre’s. I 
read several times over the names of those pupils, 
who in the eyes of Mademoiselle Préfére were 
worthy of such honor,.and then I began to grow 
uneasy at hearing no one coming. Had it not been 
for the countless swarms of sparrows that had 
chosen her court for a gathering-place where they 


= 


136 THE CRIME OF 


might chirp and squabble, Mademoiselle Préfére 


would certainly have succeeded in establishing 
within her house of learning the perfect silence of 
the celestial regions. It was a delight to hear the 
birds, but (I beg to ask) how could one see them 
through the ground-glass windows? I had to be sat- 
isfied with what I could find in the parlor, the four 
walls of which were adorned, from floor to ceiling, 
with drawings done by the scholars. There were 
vestal virgins there, flowers, cottages, capitals, vo- 
lutes, and an enormous head of Tatius, King of 
the Sabines, signed Estelle Mouton. For several 
minutes I had been admiring the energy which 
Mademoiselle Mouton had spent in delineating the — 
ancient warrior’s bushy eyebrows ~-and_ infuriated 
gaze, when a slight noise, like that made by a 
dead leaf wafted by the wind, made me turn 


emy head.} It was not a dead leaf at all; it was 


Mademoiselle Préfére. With clasped hands she 
advanced across the polished mirror of the floor, 
as the saints in “ The Golden Legend” glide over 
the crystal waters. But at any other time I think 
Mademoiselle Préfére would not have reminded 
me of the holy virgins so dear to mystic fancy. 
Her face alone would have reminded me of a pip- 
pin apple kept over winter in the attic of a thrifty 
housewife. 'On her shoulders she wore a fringed 
pélerine. In itself there was nothing remarkable 
about this; but she wore it as if it were a holy vest- 
ment, or the mark of some high civil office. 

I explained to her the object of my visit, and 
handed her my letter of introduction. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 137 


“You have seen Monsieur Mouche, then,” said 
she. “Is he in very good health? He is such a . 
worthy man, such a” — 

She did not finish the sentence, but raised her 
eyes to the ceiling. I did the same; and I saw a 
narrow spiral of paper lace, which hung in the place 
of the chandelier, and was meant, I suppose, to at- 
tract the flies, and turn them from the gilt frames 
of the mirrors and the List of Honor. 

“ IT have met Mademoiselle Alexandre at Madame 
de Gabry’s,” said I, “and I can appreciate the 
young girl’s noble character and quick intelligence. 
I was well acquainted with her parents, and I 
should like to transfer to her some of the interest 
I felt for them.” 

For answer Mademoiselle Préfére sighed deeply, 
drew her mysterious pélerine closely about her, and 
again gazed at the little paper spiral. At last she 
said, — 

“Since you were the friend of Monsieur and 
Madame Alexandre, monsieur, I am glad to believe 
that you, like Monsieur Mouche and myself, regret 
the foolish speculations which brought them to ruin 
and their daughter to poverty.” 

As I listened to her words, I thought how deeply 
wrong it is to be unfortunate, and how unpardon- 
able this wrong is on the part of those who fora 
long time were worthy of envy. Their fall avenges 
and flatters us, and we are pitiless. 

After having declared in all sincerity that I”was 
entirely ignorant of the bank trouble, I asked the 
mistress of the school if she was pleased with 
Mademoiselle Alexandre. 


138 THE CRIME OF 


“The child is incorrigible,” cried Mademoiselle 
Préfére, assuming a deeply pedantic attitude in 
order to symbolize the situation in which she was 
placed by such a fractious pupil. 

Then, returning to a calmer mode of speech, — 

“This girl is not without intelligence,” said she, 
“but she cannot make up her mind to learn facts 
by principles.” 

What a strange woman was Mademoiselle Pré- 
fére! She walked without raising her feet, and 
spoke without moving her lips. Without dwelling 
longer than a reasonable amount of time on these 
details, I replied that principles no doubt were ex- 
cellent things, and that I deferred to her intelligence 
on this point, but that, after all, when ofie knew a 
fact, it did not much matter whether one had learned 
it in one way or another. 

Mademoiselle Préfére made a slow gesture of 
denial. Then she sighed again. 

«“ Ah, monsieur, people who are strangers to edu- 
cation have very wrong ideas on the subject. I am 
sure that they speak with the best intent in the 
world; but they would do better, much better, to re- 
fer such questions to those who are competent.” 

I dropped the subject, and asked if I might see 
Mademoiselle Alexandre without further delay. 

She contemplated her pélerine as if to read in the 
tangle of its fringe, as in a conjurer’s book, what 
answer she ought to make. At length she said, — 

“ Mademoiselle Alexandre has a penance to do 
and a lesson to give, but I should be inconsolable 
to have you make a useless trip here. I will have 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 139 


her called. But allow me, sir, as a matter of form, 
to write your name on our visitors’ register.” 

She sat down before the table, opened a large 
blank-book, and drawing Maitre Mouche’s letter 
from under her pélerine where she had slipped it, 
she said, — 

“*Bonnard’ has a d, has it not? Pardon my in- 

sisting on this detail. But in my opinion, proper 
names have an orthography. Here, sir, we have 
dictations in proper names — historical names, of 
course, you understand!” 
\ She inscribed my name in a scrawly hand, and 
then-asked if she could not append a title of some 
kind, something like retired merchant, employé, 
stockholder, or some other. Her registry had a 
column for titles. 

“Why, of course, madame, if you feel you must ‘\ 
fill out your column, put ‘Member of the Insti- / 
tute.’”’ 

I still saw before me Mademoiselle Préfére’s 
pélerine, but it was no longer Mademoiselle Préfére 
who wore it. She was another person, pleasing, 
gracious, wheedling, merry, and radiant. Her eyes 
smiled; the little wrinkles on her face (and there 
were many) smiled; her mouth smiled too, but only 
in one corner. I have since learned that it was the / 
good corner. When she spoke, her voice was in 
accordance with her manner, — it was like honey. 

“You said just now, monsieur, that our dear 
Jeanne was very intelligent. I have noticed it, and 
I am proud to agree with you. Indeed, this young 
girl is a source of great interest to me. She has 


140 THE CRIME OF 


what I call a happy disposition. But forgive me 
for wasting your precious time.” 

She called the servant, who came in greater haste 
and looked more frightened than ever, and who dis- 
appeared with the order to tell Mademoiselle Alex- 
andre that Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard, a Member 
of the Institute, was waiting for her in the parlor. 

Mademoiselle Préfére had only time to confide to 
me that she had a profound respect for the decis- 
ions of the Institute, whatever they might be, when 
Jeanne appeared out of breath, as red as a peony, 
her great eyes wide open, her arms swinging, charm- 
ing in her innocent awkwardness. 

“How you are dressed, dear child!” murmured 
‘Mademoiselle Préfére, with the gentleness of a 
mother, as she arranged the girl’s collar. 

Jeanne, in truth, was dressed in a queer fashion. 
Her hair was drawn back into a net, from which 
stray locks escaped; her thin arms were covered to 
the elbow with lustring sleeves; her hands were 
red and chapped, and she seemed greatly ashamed 
of them; her dress was too short, showing a pair 
of baggy stockings and shoes trodden down at the 
heels; a jumping-rope was wound about her waist 
like a belt, and the entire combination made Jeanne 
rather unpresentable. 

“Crazy little thing!” murmured Mademoiselle 
Préfére, this time no longer the mother, but the 
elder sister. Then she escaped, gliding like a 
shadow over the slippery floor. 

I said to Jeanne, — 

“ Sit down, Jeanne, and talk to me as to a friend. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. I4I 


Are you not more contented here than you were last 
year?” 

She hesitated; then with a sweet smile of resig- 
nation, she replied, — * 

“ Not much more.” 

I begged her to tell me what she did in the school. 
She began by enumerating all sorts of studies, piano, 
style, chronology of the kings of France, sewing, 
drawing, dancing, catechism, good manners — I 
know not what else! in the meantime unconsciously 
holding the two ends of the rope with which she 
marked off her list. Suddenly, however, she no- 
ticed what she was doing, blushed, stammered, and 
I had to give up further knowledge of the complete 
list of studies in the Préfére Institute. 

I questioned Jeanne on various points; but, ob- | 
taining the most confused answers, I saw that the 
rope was occupying the whole attention of the young 
girl, and I bravely touched upon this serious subject. 

“You jump rope, I see,” I said to her. “It is 
good exercise, but must not be carried to excess; 
for then it might seriously injure your health, and I 
should never cease regretting it, Jeanne, never.” 

“ You are very good, monsieur,” replied the young 
girl, “to come to see me, and speak to me as you 
do. I did not think of thanking you when I first 
came in, I was so surprised. Have you seen Ma- 
dame de Gabry? Tell me about her, monsieur, will 
you?” 

“ Madame de Gabry,” I replied, “is very well. I 
might say of her, Jeanne, what an old gardener said 
of the lady of the manor, his mistress, when some 


142 THE CRIME OF 


one asked anxiously about her, ‘Madame is on her 
road.” Madame de Gabry ison hers; and you know 
how good a one it is, and with what even steps she 
walks there. The other day I went a long distance 
with her, and we spoke of you. We spoke of you, 
my child, at your mother’s grave.” 

“I am very glad,” said Jeanne, and she began to 
cry. 

I let the young girl’s tears flow in silence. Then, 
as she dried her eyes, I asked, — 

“ Jeanne, will you not tell me why this rope trou- 
bled you just now?” 

“Yes, indeed, monsieur. It was because I should 
not have come into the parlor with a rope. You 
know that at my age a girl does notjump rope. When 
the maid told me that an old gentleman —oh!—a 
gentleman was in the parlor and wished to see me, 
I was making the children jump. Then I tied the 
rope round my waist so as not to lose it. That was 
wrong. But I am so little used to receiving guests! 
Mademoiselle Préfére never excuses faults in good 
manners. She will certainly punish me, and I am 


very sorry.” 
“Yes, Jeanne, that is too bad.” 
She looked very serious. “ Yes, monsieur, that 


is too bad, because when I am punished I have no 
more authority over the little children.” 

I had no very clear idea on this unpleasant sub- 
ject; but Jeanne explained that she was expected by 
Mademoiselle Préfére to dress the children of the. 
youngest class, wash them, teach them manners, the 
alphabet, the use of the needle, to play with them 


\ 


SYLVESTRE BONNALKD. 143 


and to put them to bed, and that she could exact no 
obedience from these restless little ones when she 
was condemned to wear her nightcap in the class- 
room, or while standing to eat her food from a plate 
turned upside down. Secretly admiring the penal- 
ties imposed by the Lady of the Enchanted Péle- 
rine, I said, — 

“If I understand you, Jeanne, you are both pupil 
and teacher. This is no uncommon thing in the 
world. You are punished and you punish, in turn.” 

“ Oh, monsieur ! ” she exclaimed, “I never punish.” 

“ And I imagine that this indulgence draws the 
reprimands of Mademoiselle Préfére upon you.” 

She smiled, and nodded her head. 

I told her then that the troubles we brought upon 
ourselves in trying to do our best, according to the 
dictates of our conscience, should not disgust or 
weary us, for they were helpful trials. This philos- 
ophy appealed to her but slightly. She seemed per- 
fectly indifferent to my sermon, And what more 
natural? Do I not know that only those who are 
no longer innocent take delight in moralizers? I 
was wise enough to cut short my preaching. 

“Jeanne,” I said, “you spoke just now of Ma- 
dame de Gabry. Let us speak of your fairy. She 
was very well made. Do you model wax figures 
here?” 

“IT have no wax,” she replied, dropping her arms, 
“no wax!” 

_ “No wax,” I cried, “in a realm of bees!” 
She laughed. 
“ And then, you see, monsieur, my little Zgures, as 


\ 


144 THE CRIME OF 


you call them, are not on Mademoiselle Préfére’s 
program. But I began a little Saint-George tor 
Madame de Gabry, a miniature Saint-George with 
a golden breastplate. A golden breastplate is fine 
for a Saint-George, is it not, Monsieur Bonnard?” 

“Very fine, Jeanne. But what became of it?” 

“T will tell you. I kept it in my pocket, for I 
had no other place to put it — and I sat down on it.” 

She drew a little wax figure from her pocket. It 
no longer had any human shape, and its broken 
limbs were scarcely held together by their wire 
thread. At sight of her hero thus destroyed, she 
was filled with grief and merriment. The latter got 
the better of her, and she burst into a peal of 
laughter, which suddenly came to an end. 

Mademoiselle Prétére stood at the door of the 
parlor, smiling. 

“The dear child!” sighed the mistress of the 
school in her tenderest tone; “1 fear she will weary 
you. Besides, your time is precious.” 

I begged Mademoiselle Préfére to dismiss that 
illusion, and rose to take leave, first drawing from 
my pockets some chocolate tablets and other sweets 
that I had brought with me. 

“Oh! oh!” cried Jeanne; “there are enough for 
the whole school.” 

The Lady of the Pélerine interposed. 

“ Mademoiselle Alexandre,” said she, “ thank the 
gentleman for his generosity.” 

Jeanne gave her a rather sullen look; then, turn- 
ing to me, she said with remarkable firmness, — 

“T thank you, monsieur, for your kindness in 
coming to see me.” 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 145 


“Jeanne,” said I, holding both her hands, “ be a 
good and brave girl. Good-by.” 

As she ran off with her packages of chocolate 
and her sweets, the ends of her rope hit the back of 
achair. Mademoiselle Préfére was greatly shocked, 
and pressed both hands to her heart under her péle- 
rine. I expected to see her scholastic soul vanish 
in a swoon, 

When we were alone, her serenity returned ; and I 
must say, without flattering myself, that she smiled 
on me with one whole side of her face. ; 

“ Mademoiselle,” said I, taking advantage of her 
good humor, “I noticed that Jeanne Alexandre is a 
little pale. You understand better than I how, at 
her age, a girl needs rest and care. Do not let me 
give offence by asking you to watch more closely 
over her.” 

My words seemed to delight her. She gazed with 
ecstasy at the spiral in the ceiling, and clasping her 
hands, exclaimed, — 

“ How well these noted men understand how to 
stoop to the smallest details!” 

I observed that the health of a young girl was not 
a small detail, and I had the honor of bidding her 
good-day. But at the threshold she paused, and said 
in a confidential way, — 

“ Excuse my foolishness, monsieur. I am a wo- 
man, and I love glory. I cannot hide from you the 
fact that I am honored by the presence of a Member 
of the Institute in my humble institution.” 

I excused the foolishness of Mademoiselle Pré- 
fére ; and thinking of Jeanne, with the blindness of 


) 


¢ 
4 


146 THE CRIME OF 


egotism I kept asking myself as I walked along, 
“What shall we do with this child?” 
a 

That day I escorted to the cemetery of Marnes 
an old friend who, according to Goethe’s dictum, 
had consented to die. The great Goethe, whose vi- 
tal power was extraordinary, believed that one dies 
only when one wishes to do so; that is, when the last 
of the forces which resist final decay, and the total- 
ity of which makes life itself, are entirely destroyed. 
In other words, he thought that one dies only when 
one can no longer live. Well, it is only necessary to 
understand one another ; and the beautiful thought 
of Goethe, when one knows how to take it, leads to 
the song of La Palisse. 

So my good friend had consented to die, thanks 
to two or three persuasive attacks of apoplexy, the 
last of which was unanswerable. I had known him 
but slightly during his lifetime ; but it seemed that 
as soon as he was no more I became his friend, for 
our colleagues told me, in a solemn tone and with 
melancholy faces, that I was to be one of the pall- 
bearers, and speak at the grave. 

Having read, very poorly, a short address which 
I had written as well as I could,—and that is not 
saying much, — I went for a stroll among the woods 
of Ville-d’Avray, and followed, without leaning too 
heavily on the captain’s cane, a hidden path, over 
which the sunlight fell in golden disks. Never had 
the odor of the grass and the damp leaves, or the 
beauty of the sky above the trees, and the great 
stillness of all vegetable growth, penetrated so deeply 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 147 


into my heart and soul; and the sadness that I felt 
in this silence, broken by a sort of continual tinkling, 
weighed both on my senses and on my soul! 

I sat down in the Shadow of the roadside beneath 
a clump of young oaks. And then I promised my- 
self that I would not die, or at least that I would 
not consent to die before sitting again beneath an 
oak, where, in the calm of the open country, I could 
think about the nature of the soul and the final aim 
of man. A bee, whose brown corsage sparkled in 
the sun like an armor of old gold, lighted on a mal- 
low-flower of sombre richness, in full bloom upon 
its tufted stalk. Surely it was not the first time I 
had seen. such a common sight, but I noticed it 
then for the first time with such affectionate and 
intelligent curiosity. I discovered that between the 
insect and the plant there were all sorts of sympa- 
thies, and a thousand ingenious relations which un- 
til then I had never suspected. ; 

Satiated with nectar, the insect flew away in a 
straight line, and I rose as well as I could and re- 
adjusted myself on my legs. 

“ Adieu,” I said to the flower and the bee, 
“adieu. May I live long enough to know the 
secret of your harmonies! 1am very weary. But 
man is so made that he finds rest from one labor 
only by another. The flowers and the insects shall 
rest me, if God is willing, after my philology and 
diplomatics. What sense there is in the ancient 
myth of Antzus!” 

I have touched the earth, and I am a new man; 
and here at the age of seventy new interests rise in 


148 — THE CRIME OF 


me, as one sees shoots sprouting from the hollow 
trunk of an old oak. 
June 4. 
I love to look from my window at the Seine and 
aol its quays on these soft gray mornings that gi ¢ 
such infinite softness to «i thin st I have Sead x 
om ths azure sky which wales ts shining calm 
aeregs the Bay of Naples. 6b Oak _ Parisian sky Be 
more animated, more kind, ore—intelligent t 
smiles, threatens, caresses, is sad and gay, like a 
human gaze. Just now it is pouring a soft sl 
over the men and beasts of the city as they 
their daily laborg. Beyond, on the opposite “bank,” 
the longshoremen of the Port Saint-Nicolas are dy 
loading cargoes of cattle-horns, while a rn edd. 
st nding fon a gangplank briskly toss fro to 
Rea sugar-loaves 
withingthe hold of a steamship. , fOn the northern 
quay the cab-horses, Na owe beneath the 
shadow of the plane-trees, their heads in their nosg. - 
bags, tranquil thei Ae while the fat ~ 
coachmen ies ries thé ba ar. f the wiie- 
a (Shep, all the“time Heeping ELE Salat sen morn= 
ar ing eustomers. - [ge 
"The dealers in old MS Pee their cases on 


the p ape These: “merchants of knowledge 
(Seep out-of-doors, with blouses played. 
| en eae 5S SR and so hardened have they 


grown by the air, the rain, the hail, the snow, the 
fog, and the broad sun, that they come to look like 
the old statues on cathedrals. They are all friends 
of mine; and I scarcely ever pass their stalls without 


f\ 





SVYLVESTRE BONNARD. j 149 | 


finding some old volume which, until then, I have 
needed without in the least suspecting it. 

On my return home, my housekeeper cries out that 
I am tearing all my pockets, and filling the house 


with old pamphlets which attract the rats. _Thérése _ 


_is wise on this point, and it is just because she is 
wise that I pay no heed to her; for in spite of my 








quiet manner, I have always preferred the folly of 
‘the passions to the wisdom of indifference. But 
because My passions are not such as burst forth to 
hurt and kill, the ordinary person does not notice 
them. However, they stir me; and more than once 
I have lost sleep over a few pages written by a for- 
gotten monk, or printed by some humble apprentice 
of Peter Schéffer. And if these lively emotions are. 
dying out in me, it is because I am dying out myself. 











Our passions are ourselves. ~My old books are > my- 


self. Tam old-and motheaten like them. 

A light breeze sweeps up the dust of he: road 
with the winged seeds of the plane-trees, and the bits 
of hay that have fallen from the horses’ mouths. It 
is nothing but a cloud of dust; but seeing it rise re- 
calls to my mind that in my boyhood I saw a simi- 
lar cloud of dust rise, and my old Parisian heart is 
deeply moved by ity Everything that I see from my 
window, —the horizon extending on my left to the 
hills of Chaillot, the Arc de Triomphe that looks 
like a block of stone, the Seine, river of glory, and 
its bridges, the linden-trees of the terrace of the Tui- 
leries, the Louvre of the Renaissance, cut like a 
jewel; on my right, by the side of the Pont-Neuf, 
pons lutetiae novus dictus, as we read on old prints, 


150 THE CRIME OF- 


the ancient and venerable Paris with its towers and 
spires —all that is my life, myself ; and I should be © 
nothing without these things which are reflected in 
me with my thousand shades of thought, and which 
inspire and animate me. This is why I love Paris 
with such a deep affection. 

Yet I am weary; and I realize that no one can 
rest in the heart of this city, which thinks so much, 
which has taught me to think, and which ceaselessly 
urges me to think. Howcan one help but be excited 
in the midst of the books which constantly rouse my 
interest, and weary without satisfying it? Now it 
is a date that must be found, now a place which it 
is necessary to determine precisely, or some old ex- 
pression, the real meaning of which it is interesting 
to know. Words? Yes, they are words; and asa 
philologist, I am their king; they are my subjects, 
and I, like a good king, give them my whole life. 

Can I not abdicate some day? I imagine that 
somewhere, far from here, there is, at the edge of the 
wood, a little cottage, where I should find the rest I 
need, while waiting for the great irrevocable Rest 
that will envelop me forever. I dream of a bench 
at the door, and of fields as far as eye can see. But 
a young face must smile beside me, in order to re- 
flect and concentrate all the freshness about me. I 
could imagine myself a grandfather; then the whole 
void of my life would be filled. 

I am not a man of violent temper; and yet I am 
easily irritated, and all my labors have caused me 
as much pain as pleasure. I do not know why I 
gave a thought, three months ago, to the silly and 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. I5t 


impertinent remark which my young friend of the 
Luxembourg took the liberty to make about me. I 
do not use the word “ friend ” in any ironical sense, 
for I love studious youth with its audacities and 
mental flights. But my young friend went beyond 
all limit. Master Ambroise Pargjthe first to under- 
stand the ligature of the arteries, and who, having 
found surgery practised by barbers on empirical 
lines, raised it to where it is to-day, was attacked in 
his old age by every conceited young leech. Taken 
to task by a thoughtless youngster, who might have 
been the best son in the world, but who lacked all 
feeling of reverence, the aged master replied to him 
in his treatise on Zhe Mummy, the Unicorn, Pot- 
sons and the Plague. “1 beg of him,” said the 
great man, “I beg of him, if he desires to oppose 
my reply, to give up personal feelings, and treat the 
old man more kindly.” 

This reply is admirable from the pen of Ambroise 
Paré; but had it come from a village bone-setter, 
grown old over his work, and ridiculed by a strip- 
ling, it would still be praiseworthy. 

It will perhaps be thought that this remembrance 
is but the awakening of contemptible resentment. 
I thought so, too, and blamed myself for giving a 
thought to a mere boy, who had no idea of what he 
was saying. But my ideas on this subject turned 
into a better channel; this is why I note them down 
in my diary. I remembered that one fine day, when 
I was not more than twenty (more than half a cen- 
tury ago), I was walking with some companions in 

1 De la Mumie, de la Licorne, des Venins et de la Peste. 


152 THE CRIME OF 


this same garden of the Luxembourg. We were 
talking of our old masters; and one of us mentioned 
Monsieur Petit-Radel, a respectable scholar, who 
was the first to throw a gleam of light on the origin 
of the Etruscans, but who had been unfortunate 
enough to prepareja chronological table of the lov- 
ers of Helen. This table caused us much merri- 
ment; and I cried, — 

“ Petit-Radel is an ass, not of three letters, but of 
a dozen volumes ! ” 

That youthful remark is too light to weigh upon 
an old man’s conscience. If I have hurled only 
such harmless missiles in the battle of life! But 
I ask myself to-day, if, during my lifetime, I have 
not done, though unconsciously, something as fool- 
ish as the chronological table of the lovers of Helen. 
The progress of sciences renders useless the works 
which have most aided that progress. As these 
labors are no longer of much account, youth natu- 
rally believes that they have never been of use — she 
despises them ; and if any antiquated idea is found, 
she laughs at it. That is why, at the age of twenty, 
I made fun of Monsieur Petit-Radel and his honest 
chronological table. That is why, yesterday, in the 
Luxembourg, my young and disrespectful friend — 
“ Look to thyself, Octavius, nor complain. 

Wouldst thou hope to be spared, thou, that sparest in vain?” 1 
June 6. 

It was the first Thursday of June. I closed my 

books, and took leave of the holy Abbot Droctoveus, 


1 “§ Rentre en toi-méme, Octave, et cesse de te plaindre. 
Quoi! tu veux qu on Uépargne et n’as rien tpargné?” 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 153 


who, as he is now enjoying celestial happiness, is in 
no haste. I think to see his name and his works 
glorified on this earth in a humble volume by my 
hands.f Shall I admit it? that mallow-stock that I 
saw the other day, and the bee that lighted upon it, 
have occupied my thoughts much more than all the 
old abbots with their crosses and mitres. In my 
youth, when I read everything, I came across a vol- 
ume by Sprengel, which contained some theories 
about the loves of the flowers. These came back 
to me after having been forgotten for half a century ; 
and I am so much interested in them to-day, that I 
am sorry that I did not consecrate my humble tal- 
ents to the study of insects and plants. 

Just now my housekeeper surprised me at the 
kitchen window, examining, through a magnifying- 
glass, the corolla of a gillyflower. 

These reflections occurred to me as I was look- 
ing for my cravat. But having rummaged in vain 
through a number of drawers, I resorted to my 
housekeeper. Thérése came limpingly into the 
room, 

“ Monsieur,” said she, “ you should have told me 
that you were going out, and I would have given 
you your cravat.” 

« But, Thérése,” I replied, “would it not be better 
to have some place for it where I could find it with- 
out your help?” 

Thérése did not deign to reply. She no longer 
allows me to make arrangements about anything. 
I cannot have even a handkerchief without asking 
her for it; and as she is deaf and infirm, and what 


| 


154 THE CRIME OF 


is still worse, is losing her memory, I languish in a 
constant state of destitution. But she exercises her 
domeStic authority with such a tranquil pride that 
I have not the courage to attempt a stroke of state- 
policy against the government of my wardrobe. 

“ My cravat! Thérése, do you hear? My cra- 
vat! or if you drive me to distraction by further 
delay, I ee need a cravat, but a rope with 
which to han nyself, 

“You are in\ great haste, monsieur,” replies 
Thérése.. Vola is not lost. Nothing is 
lost here, for I look \after everything. But at least 
give me time to find it.” 

“ Behold,” I think to myself, “behold the result 
of half a century of exable Ah! if by some 





happy chance this inexorable Thérése had once, 
only once in her life, faile \in her duty as a Servant, 
if, for an instant, she had been at fault, she would — 
not hold this despotic rule over me, or at least I 
should have dared to resist her. But how can one 
rebel against goodness? People without any weak- 
ness are dreadful. One has no hold upon them. 


_Take Thérése, for example: she, has not a fault to 


which I can take exception. She doubts neither 
herself, nor God, nor the world. She is the strong 
woman, the wise virgin of the Scriptures; and if 
men do not know her, I do. In my mind's eye I 
see her, bearing in her hand a lamp, a humble 
household lamp, that shines beneath\the joists of 
a rustic roof, and which will never go out while 
held by that meagre arm, as scraggy and as strong 
as a vine-shoot. \ 


SYZLVESTRE BONNARD. 155 


«“ Thérése, my cravat! Do you not know, 
wretched woman, that to-day is the first Thursday 
in June, and that Mademoiselle Jeanne is expecting 
me? The mistress of the school will undoubtedly 
have had i I am sure that 
already one can see one’s self in it; and it will bea 
distraction for me when I break my bones, which I 
certainly shall do before long, to see my sad face in 
it, as ina mirror. Then, taking as a model the good 
and excellent hero whose image is carved on my 
uncle Victor’s cane, I shall try not to make too hid- 
eous a face. See the beautiful sunshine. The 
quays are gilded with it, and the Seine smiles in 
countless little sparkling wrinkles. The city is 
golden —a light golden dust-cloud, like a wealth of 
hair, floats over its beautiful contours. Thérése, 
my cravat!*Ah! I sympathize now with good mas- 
ter Chrysal, who used to lay his neckbands between 
the pages of a thick Plutarch. I will follow his 
example, and hereafter I will put all my cravats be- 
tween the leaves of the Acta Sanctorum.” 

Thérése in silence proceeded with her search, 
letting me talk. At last I heard a gentle ring at our 
door. 

«“ Thérése,” said I, “some one is ringing. Give 
me my cravat, and go and open the door; or rather, 
go and open the door first, and then, by the help of 
Heaven, you may give me my cravat. But do not 
stand like that, I beg you, between my dressing- 
table and the door, like, if I dare to use such a sim- 
ile, a hackney between two saddles.” 

Thérése strode to the door as toward an enemy. 





156 THE CRIME OF 


My good housekeeper is becoming very inhospitable 
as she grows old. A stranger is a suspicious char- 
acter to her. According to her own account, this 
feeling comes from a long experience with men. I 
never had the time to consider if the same experi- 
ence made by another experimenter would produce 
the same result. Maitre Mouche was waiting for 
me in my library. 

Maitre Mouche is even yellower than I thought. 
He wears blue glasses, and his eyes keep shifting 
_behind them like mice behind a screen. 

Maitre Mouche apologizes for troubling me at a 
time — he does not designate what time, but I think 
that he means to say at a time when I have no 
cravat on. But this, as you know, is not my fault. 
Maitre Mouche, who knows nothing about it, does 
not seem at all offended. He simply fears that he 
has arrived at an inconvenient hour, but I partly re- 
assure him. He says that, as the guardian of Ma- 
demoiselle Alexandre, he has come to speak to me. 
In the first place, he begs me to pay no attention to 
the restrictions which at first he had thought best 
to place upon the permission given us for seeing 
Mademoiselle Jeanne in school. Henceforth the 
establishment of Mademoiselle Préfére will be open 
to me every day between twelve o’clock and four. 
Knowing the interest I take in this-young girl, he 
thinks it his duty to tell me something of the person 
to whose care he has intrusted his ward. Made- 
moiselle Préfére, whom he has known for years, has 
his entire confidence. According to his ideas she is 
an intelligent woman, of sound common-sense and 
fine manners. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 157 


«“ Mademoiselle Préfére,” said he, “is a woman of 
principles, and that is a rare thing, monsieur, in these 
days. There has been a great change, and this 
age is not equal to those that have preceded it.” 

“Take my stairway, for example, monsieur,” I re- 
plied. “Twenty-five years ago it used to let me 
climb it with perfect ease, and now it tires my legs 
and makes me out of breath to mount the very 
first steps. It has become spoiled. There are the 
papers, and the books too, that once I devoured in 
the moonlight without any difficulty; but to-day, in 
the brightest sunlight, they mock my interest, and 
show me nothing but white and black when I am 
without glasses. I have gout in my limbs. This, 
again, is one of the evils of the times.” 

“ Not only that, monsieur,” gravely replied Maitre 
Mouche, “ but the real evil of the present age is the 
fact that no one is satisfied with his position. There 
is an uneasiness, an unrest, a thirst for the comforts 
of life in every class of society, from the lowest to 
the highest.” 

“Heavens, monsieur!” I cried, “ do you consider 
that this thirst for comfort is a sign of the times? 
Men have at no time had a desire for discomfort. 
They have always tried to better their condition. 
This constant effort has produced constant change. - 
It still continues, that is all.” 

“Ah, monsieur,” replied Maitre Mouche, “it is 
easy to see that you live among your books, far 
from the world. You do not see, as I do, the con- 
flicts of interest, the struggle for money. You find 
in the great and the small the same effervescence. 


158 THE CRIME OF 


People give themselves up to unbridled speculation. 
What I see frightens me.” 

I was beginning to wonder if Maitre Mouche had 
come to my house simply to tell me his virtuous mis- 
anthropy; but soon I heard more cheering words 
from him. Maitre Mouche described Virginie Pré- 
fére to me as a woman worthy of respect, of esteem, 
and of sympathy; the soul of honor, capable of af- 
fection, educated, discreet, a good reader, modest 
and skilful in the art of applying blisters} I under- 
stood then that he had given me such a gloomy pic- 
ture of universal corruption in order to bring out by 
contrast the virtues of the schoolmistress. I was 
told that the establishment of the rue Demours was 
well patronized, successful, and highly esteemed. In 
order to give emphasis to his statements, Maitre 
Mouche_ waved his hand with its black woollen 
glove. {Then he added, — 

“In the practice of my profession I have come to 
know the world. <A notary is somewhat of a con- 
fessor. I considered it my duty, monsieur, to tell you 
these facts, now that a happy chance has brought 
you into relationship with Mademoiselle Préfére. I 
have but one word to add. This lady, who is abso- 
lutely ignorant of my visit to you, spoke to me of 
you the other day in terms of the highest praise. I 
should only weaken them by repeating them to you; 
moreover, I could not tell them without, in a way, 
betraying the confidence of Mademoiselle Préfére.” 

“Do not betray it, monsieur,” I replied, “do not 
betray it. To tell you the truth, I was quite una- 
ware that Mademoiselle Préfére had the slightest 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 159 


knowledge of me, However, since you have the ad- 
vantage of such a long-standing friendship with her, 
I will profit by your good will towards me, and beg 
you to use your influence with your friend in favor 
of Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre. The child, for 
she is still such, is overtaxed with work. At once 
pupil and teacher, she has too much to do. More 
than this, she is punished in an absurdly childish 
manner; and hers is a generous nature, which by 
humiliation may be driven to revolt.” 

“Alas!” replied Maitre Mouche, “she must be 
prepared for life. We are not in the world to enjoy , 
ourselves, and to have our own way.” 

“We are in the world,” I replied with some 
warmth, “to take pleasure in the good and the 
beautiful, and to follow our own way when it is no- 
ble, holy, and generous. An education which does 
not train the will is one that depraves the mind. 
The instructor must teach us how to will.” 

I imagined that Maitre Mouche thought me a 
poor sort of fellow. He proceeded with great calm- 
ness and assurance, — 

“ Remember, monsieur, that the education of the 
poor should be made with great care, and with a 
view toward the state of dependence which they will 
hold in society. Possibly you are not aware that 
the late Néel Alexandre died insolvent, and that his 
daughter is brought up almost by charity.” 

“Oh, monsieur!” I cried, «do not say that. To 
say it is to pay one’s self back, and then it could 
no longer be true.” 

“The debts of the estate exceeded the assets,” 


160 THE CRIME OF 


continued the notary; “but I have arranged with 
the creditors in favor of the minor,” 

He offered to explain in detail; but I declined to 
put him to that trouble, being incapable of compre- 
hending business affairs in general, and those of 
Maitre Mouche in particular. The notary began 
again to uphold Mademoiselle Préfére’s system of 
education, and said to me in conclusion, — 

“We do not learn by amusing ourselves.” / 

“We learn only by amusing ourselves,” I replied. 
“ The art of teaching is but the art of rousing the 
interest of young minds in order to satisfy it later, 
and interest is alert and healthy only in happy minds. 
Knowledge, forced and crammed into the mind, 
chokes and suffocates it. In order that knowledge 
may be digested, it must be swallowed with relish. 
I know Jeanne. If this child were intrusted to my 
care, I would make of her not a student, for I wish 
her well, but a girl of quick intelligence and full of 
life, in whom everything beautiful in nature and art 
would evoke a sweet yet brilliant response. I would 
teach her to live in sympathy with the beautiful 
country, with the ideal scenes of poetry and history, 
with music that appeals to our noblest emotions. 
I_would make lovable everything that_]_wanted_her 
to love. Y would give-aistinction even to needle- 
work, by the selection of fabrics, the choice of em- 
broideries, and the style of laces. She should have 
a beautiful dog and a pony, in order that she might 
know how to govern animals; she should have birds 
to care for, that she might learn the value of a drop 
of water and a crumb of bread. And in order to 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 161 


give her still another pleasure, I should want her 
to find pleasure in being charitable. 

« Then, since sorrow is inevitable, since life is full 
of grief, I would teach her that Christian wisdom 
which lifts us above every grief, and makes even 
sorrow beautiful. That is how I would direct a 
young girl’s education.” 

“TI bow before you,” said Maitre Mouche, clasp- 
ing his hands in their black woollen gloves. Then 
he rose. 

“You understand, of course,” said I, as I went 
with him to the door, “ that I do not pretend to im- 
pose on Mademoiselle Préftre my system of edu- 
cation, which is essentially a home-training, and 
entirely incompatible with the organization of the 
best schools. I merely beg you to ask her to give 
Jeanne less work and more play, to punish her only 
in case of necessity, and to allow her as much free- 
dom of mind and body as confirms to the rule of the 
school.” 

Maitre Mouche assured me, with a weak and mys- 
terious smile, that my wishes would be taken in good 
part, and that they would have great weight. 

He then made me a little bow and went away, 
leaving me in a state of worry and unrest. I have 
had to deal in my life with various kinds of people, 
but never with any like this notary or this school 


mistress, a 
July 6. f, 
Maitre Mouche kept me so long by his visit tha 
I gave up going to see Jeanne that day. Profesh 
sional duties detained me at home for the rest of the 


———_ 


r62: . THE CRIME OF 


week. Although I have reached the age when most 
men retire from active duties, I am still bound by a 
thousand ties to the life in which I have lived. I 
preside at meetings of academies, congresses, and 
societies. I am overwhelmed with honorary func- 
tions. I fill as many as seven of these in one gov- 
ernment department. The offices would like to get 
rid of me, and I of them; but habit is stronger than 
they and I together. So, limpingly, I mount the 
stairways of the state buildings. After I pass, the 
old clerks will point me out to one another, wander- 
ing like a shadow through the halls. When one is 
very old, it becomes extremely difficult to disappear. 
However, it is time, as runs the song, to retire on my 
pension, and prepare for a peaceful end. 

An old marchioness of a philosophic turn, a friend 
of Helvetius in her early days, — I used to see her at 
my father’s in her old age, — received, during her last 
illness, a visit from her curate, who came to prepare 
her to die. 

“Ts it really necessary?” she asked him. “I see 
that_every one succeeds perfectly the first time. ee 

My father went to see her a short time after, and 
found her very ill. 

“ Good-evening, my dear friend,” said she, as she 
pressed his hand; “I am going to see if God im- 
proves on acquaintance.” 

That is how the “beautiful friends” of the phi- 
losophers used to die. Their method is not vul- 
garly impertinent, and frivolous remarks such as 
theirs are not begotten in the heads of fools. But 
they shock me. Neither my hopes nor my fears are * 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 163 


compatible with such a mode of departure. For 
mine, I should want meditation; and therefore I 
must begin to think, in a year or two, about giving 
myself up to myself. Without this, I should risk — 
but hush! if He be passing, let Him not hear the 
sound of His name and turn back! I am still able 
to raise my burden alone. 

I found Jeanne very happy. She told me that 
last Thursday after her guardian's visit, Mademoi- 
selle Préfére had excused her from the rules of the 
school, and lightened many of her duties. Since 
that happy Thursday she could walk freely in the 
garden, where only flowers and leaves were lacking. 
She had even the facilities for modelling her unfor- 
tunate little Saint-George. 

“TI know very well that I owe all this to you,” 
said she, smiling. 

I spoke to her of other things, but I noticed that 
her attention wandered in spite of her. 

“T see that something is on your mind,” said I. 
“Tell me about it, or else we shall be talking to no 
purpose, and that would not be worth while for 
either of us.” 

She answered, — 

“Oh, monsieur! I heard you perfectly; but it is 
true that I was thinking of something else. You 
will forgive me, will you not? I was thinking that 
Mademoiselle Préfére must be very fond of you to 
have grown so good to me all of a sudden.” 

She looked at me in a smiling, yet frightened way 
that made me laugh. 

«So that surprises you, does it?” I asked. 


- 
~ 


164 THE CRIME OF 


“Yes, very much,” she replied. 

“Why? if you do not mind telling.” 

“ Because I do not see any reason, not the least — 
but there !—no, not the least in the world, why you 
should please Mademoiselle Préfére.” 

“Do you think me so very disagreeable, Jeanne?” 

She bit her lips as if to punish them for what 
they had said; then, opening her great soft eyes like 
those of a water-spaniel, she continued in a wheed- 
ling tone, — 

“I know very well that I have made a blunder, 
but truly I do not see any reason why you should 
- please Mademoiselle Préfére. And yet you do 
please her very, very much. She called me to her, 
and asked me all sorts of questions about you.” 

“ Did she really?” 

“ Yes; she wanted to know about your home. 
Just imagine! she asked me how old your house- 
keeper was.” 

And Jeanne burst out laughing. 

“ Well,” said I, “what do you think about it?” 

For several moments her eyes were fixed on the 
worn-out cloth of her boots. She seemed lost in 
deep meditation. At last she raised her head. 

“I am suspicious,” said she. “It is very natural, 
is it not, that we should be anxious about what we 
do not understand. I know well enough that I am 
silly, but I hope you are not angry with me.” 

“No, indeed, Jeanne. I am not at all angry.” 

I confess that her surprise was beginning to affect 
me, and I kept revolving in my old head the girl’s 
words, ‘we are anxious about what we do not un- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 165 


derstand.’ But with a fresh burst of laughter, she 
cried, — 

“She asked me — guess! I will give you a hun- 
dred, I will give you a thousand guesses. Do you 
give itup? Well, she asked me if you liked good 
living.” ; 

“ And how did you answer all this storm of ques- 
tions, Jeanne?” : 

“I answered, ‘I do not know, mademoiselle.’ 
And then mademoiselle said, ‘ You are a little goose. 
The smallest details in the life of a great man should 
be noticed. You must know, mademoiselle, that 
Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard is one of the glories of 
France.’ ” 

“ Nonsense!” I cried. “And what do you think 
about it, mademoiselle ?” 

“I think that Mademoiselle Préfére was right. 
But I do not care—(what I am going to tell you 
is naughty!) —I do not care, I don’t care at all 
whether Mademoiselle Préfére is right or not about 
anything.” 

“Well, then, be contented, Jeanne; Mademoiselle 
Préfére was not right.” 

“Yes, she was, yes, she was; she was perfectly 
right. But I wanted to love every one who loves 
you, without one exception, and I cannot do so; for 
it never would be possible for me to love Mademoi-y / 
selle Préfére.” 

“Listen to me, Jeanne,” I replied gravely. 
«“ Mademoiselle Préfére has become good to you, 
be good to her.” 


She answered in a hard tone, — 


166 THE CRIME OF 


“Tt is very easy for Mademoiselle Préfére to be 
good to me, and it would be very hard for me to 
be good to her.” 

In a still more serious tone, I said, — 

“My child, the authority of a teacher is sacred. 
Your schoolmistress takes the place of the mother 
whom you have lost.” 

Scarcely had I uttered this solemn nonsense ere 
I repented bitterly. The young girl’s face grew 
white, her eyes filled. 

“Oh, monsieur!” she cried, “how can you say 
such a thing? You did not know mamma.” 

Ah, just Heaven! but I had known her mother, 
and how could IJ have said such athing? She kept 
saying over and over, — 

‘Mamma! my dear mamma, my poor mamma!” 

Chance prevented my becoming a perfect fool. I 
do not know how it happened that I looked as if I were 
crying. At my age one does notcry! It must have 
been a bad cough that drew the tears to my eyes. 
It was anatural mistake. Jeanne made that mistake, 

Oh, what a fine, what a radiant smile shone under 
her pretty wet lashes, like the sunlight among the 
branches after a summer rain! We took each other 
by the hand, and stood for a long time in happy 
silence. The heavenly strains that I had heard in 
my heart, at the grave to which a good woman had 
takem me, echoed again in my heart with infinite 
sweetness. The child whose hands I held heard 
them no doubt; and the poor old man and the inno- 
cent young girl, carried away from the world, saw 
for an instant the same spirit hovering over them. 


\ 


J 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 167 


“ My child,” said I at last, «I am very old, and 
many of the secrets of life which you will learn by 
degrees are already revealed to me. Believe me, 
the future is the outgrowth of the past. All that 
you do in order to live a good life here, without re- 


bellion and bitterness, will help you to live some 


day in peace and joy in your home. Be gentle, and 
learn how to suffer. When one knows how to suffer, 
one suffers less. If some day you should have real 
cause for complaint, I shall be there to hear you. 
If any one offends you, Madame de Gabry and I 
shall be offended too.” 

“Is your health very good indeed, my dear mon- 
sieur?” 

It was Mademoiselle Préfére. She had come in 
stealthily, and she smiled as she asked me the ques- 
tion. My first thought was to tell her to go to the 
devil; my second to remark that her mouth was 
about as well adapted for smiles as a saucepan for 
playing the violin with; my third was to return her 
courtesy, and say that I hoped she was well. 

She sent the young girl to walk in the garden. 
Then, with one hand on her shawl, and the other 
raised toward the Honor List, she pointed to the 
name of Jeanne Alexandre written in round letters 
at the head of the list. 

“I see with genuine pleasure,” said I, “that you 
are pleased with this child’s conduct. Nothing 
could delight me more, and I must attribute this 
happy result to your loving care. I have taken the 
liberty to have some books sent to you, which may in- 
terest and instruct the young ladies. After you have 


168 THE CRIME OF 


glanced at them, you will readily see if you wish 
to give them to mademoiselle and her companions.” 

The schoolmistress’s gratitude went so far as to 
become tearful, and still continued in words. In 
order to cut it short, I said, — 

“What a beautiful day it is!” 

“Yes,” she replied; ‘“‘and if it continues, these 
dear little girls will have fine weather for their 
outing.” 

“I suppose you mean their vacation. But Made- 
moiselle Alexandre, who is an orphan, cannot leave 
the school. What in the world will she do in this 
great empty house?” 

“We will give her all the pleasure in our power. 
I will take her to the museums, and ” — 

She hesitated, blushed, and added, — 

« And to your house, if I may.” 

“¢ Why, of course!” I cried; “that is an excellent 
idea.” 

We parted very good friends. I, because I had 
obtained what I wanted. She, from no apparent 
reason; and that, according to Plato, places her in 
the highest circle of the hierarchy of souls. 

And yet I have a presentiment of misfortune in 
bringing this woman into my house. I shouid like 
it if Jeanne were in some other hands than hers. 
Maitre Mouche and Mademoiselle Préfétre are be- 
yond my comprehension. I never know why they 
say what they say, or why they do what they do. 
There is a mysterious depth to them that makes me 
feel uneasy. As Jeanne said just now, “ We are 
anxious about what we do not understand.” 


\ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 169 


Alas! at my age, we know too well how seldom 
life is free from evil; we know too well what we 
lose by dwelling in this world, and we have confi- 
dence only in youth. a \ 
August 16. 

I was waiting for them. Indeed, I was impatient a 
waiting for them. I have been exerting all the tal- 
ent I possess in the art of pleasing and coaxing, so 
as to wheedle Thérése into welcoming them kindly ; 
but my powers are limited. 

They came. Jeanne was very smart looking in- 
deed! She is not her mother, of course; but I no- 
ticed to-day, for the first time, that she has a pleas- 
ing face, which in this world is very advantageous 
toa woman. I thought that her hat was somewhat 
crooked; but she smiled, and the City of Books was 
illuminated. 

I looked at Thérése to see if her old-guardian 
sternness had relaxed at sight of the young girl. I 
saw her gazing at Jeanne with her dull eyes, her 
long face, her hollow mouth, and her pointed chin 
that looks like that of some powerful old fairy. But 
that was all. 

Mademoiselle Préfére, aressed in blue, advanced, 
retreated, skipped, trotted, cried out, sighed, raised 
her eyes, lowered her eyes, stammered, she did not 
dare, she dared, again she did not dare, yet she dared 
again, courtesied — in short, it was like the maneu- 
vres in a riding-school. 

“Oh, what quantities of books!” she cried ; “and 
you have read them all, Monsieur Bonnard ?” 

“ Yes, unfortunately,” I replied; “and that is why 


170 THE CRIME OF 


I know nothing at all; for there is not one of these 
books that does not contradict some other, so that 
when you have read them all, you know not what to 
think. This is my case, madame.” 

At this point she called Jeanne to tell her how 
she felt about it. But Jeanne was looking out of 
the window. 

“ How beautiful it is!” she said to us. “I doso 
love to watch the river. It makes one think of all \ 
sorts of things.” 

Mademoiselle Préfére having removed her hat, 
and displayed a brow adorned with blond curls, my 
housekeeper pounced upon the hat with emphasis, 
saying that she did not like to have clothes lying 
about on the furniture. Then she asked Jeanne for 
her things, calling her ma petite demotselle (“ my lit- 
tle lady).” The little lady gave up her cloak and 
hat, exposing to view a graceful neck and a rounded 
figure, the lines of which stood out in beautiful relief 
against the strong light from the windows. I could 
have wished that she might be seen at that moment 
by some one else besides an antiquated housekeeper, 
a schoolmistress frizzed like a sheep, and an old 
fossil whose life had been given to archeology and, 
books. 

“So you are looking at the Seine,” I said to her. 
“See how it sparkles in the sun.” 

“Yes,” she said, as she leaned out with her elbow 
on the window-ledge ; “it looks like a running flame. 
But see how cool it looks over there under the wil- 
lows on the bank that it reflects. I like that little 
nook better than all the rest.” 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 171 


“Come,” said I, “I see that the river charms you. 
What would you say if, with the consent of Made- 
moiselle Préfére, we were to make an excursion to 
Saint-Cloud by the steamboat that is sure to be 
below the Pont-Royal? ” 

Jeanne was delighted with the idea, and Made- 
moiselle Préfére was willing to make any sacrifice. 
But my housekeeper would not hear of our going in 
any such way She took me into the dining-room, 
where I followed her in fear and trembling. 

“ Monsieur,” said she, when we were alone, “ you 
never think of anything, and I have to think of 
everything. Fortunately I have a good memory.” 

I did not think it a seasonable moment to shatter 
this rash illusion. She continued, — 

“ The idea of your going away without telling me 
what the little lady likes. Girls at her age are 
stupid; they have no special tastes; they eat like 
birds. You are very hard to please, monsieur, but 
at least you know what is good. It is not so with 
these young things. They know nothing’ about 
cooking. They often think that the worst is the 
best; and the worst seems good to them, because 
their stomachs are not yet formed, so that one does 
not know what to do for them. Tell me, does the 
Tittle lady like pigeons with sweet pease and vanilla ' 
cream ?” 

“ My good Thérése,” I replied, “ get whatever you 
think best, and it will be right. These ladies will be 
pleased with a simple dinner, such as we usually 
have.” 

Thérése answered dryly, — 








172 THE CRIME OF 


“ Monsieur, I am speaking to you of the little lady. 
She must not leave the house without having had 
some good of it. As to the old frizzle-head, if my 
dinner does not suit her, she may suck. her thumbs. 
What do I care about her?” 

I returned with a quiet mind to the City of 
Books, where Mademoiselle Préfére was crocheting 
as calmly as if she had been at home. I almost be- 
lieved she was. She occupied but a small space, it 
is true, in a corner by the window. But she had 
chosen her chair and her stool so well that they 
seemed made for her. 

Jeanne, on the other hand, was gazing at the 
books and pictures with a look almost of sadness, 
which seemed to be bidding them an affectionate 
good-by. 

“ Here,” said I, “ amuse yourself in looking over 
this book, which cannot fail to please you, for it con- 
tains some beautiful engravings ;”’ and I laid before 
her the collection of costumes by Vecellio. Nota 
cheap copy, I will beg you to observe, poorly repro- 
duced by modern artists, but a magnificent and ven- 
erable copy of the editio princeps, which in beauty 
equals the noble women upon its yellow pages, made 
more beautiful by time. 

Jeanne looked over the engravings with girlish 
interest, and turning to me, said, — 

“We were speaking of an excursion, but you are 
taking me on a journey. I should like to go a long, 
long way!” 

“ Well, then, mademoiselle,” said I, you must ar- 
range yourself comfortably for travelling. You are 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 173 


sitting on the edge of your chair, and tipping it up 
on one leg, and Vecellio must be tiring your knees. 
Sit down comfortably, put your chair straight, and 
lay the book on the table. 

She obeyed me with a laugh. 

I watched her. At last she cried out, — 

“ Oh! come and see this lovely costume! (It was 
that of a doge’s wife.) How splendid it is, and 
what magnificent ideas it gives one! 1 am going to 
tell you something —I adore pretty things.” 

“You must not_express_such thoughts, made- 
moiselle,” said the schoolmistress, lifting her shape-_ 
less little nose from her work. aaaer 

“And yet there is no harm in that,” said I ; “there 
are sumptuous minds that have an inborn love of 
sumptuousness.” 

The shapeless little nose sank down again im- 
mediately. 

« Mademoiselle Préfére loves pretty things too,” 
said Jeanne; “she cuts out paper transparencies for 
the lamps. That is an economical form of luxury, 
but it is luxury just the same.” 

Returning to Venice, we were making the acquaint- 
ance of a patrician lady clothed in an embroidered 
dalmatic, when I heard the door-bell. I supposed 
it was some fatronnet with his basket, when the 
door of the City of Books opened, and — ah, Maitre 
Sylvestre Bonnard, you were wishing a moment ago 
that other eyes than those that were faded and hid- 
den behind spectacles might see your profégée in 
her beauty, your wishes are answered in a most un- 
expected manner. And as to the imprudent Theseus 
a voice calls out to you, — 


id 


174 THE CRIME OF 


“ Beware, my Lord, beware lest pitiless Heaven 
fate you enough to hearken to-your prayer. 
Oft Heaven in wrath accepts our sacrifices, 

Its gifts are oft chastisements for our crimes,” 1 


The door of the City of Books opened, and 
a handsome young man appeared, shown in by 
Thérése. That simple old soul knows no more 
than to open and close the door for people. 

She understands nothing of the etiquette of the 
reception-room and the parlor. In her code of laws, 
there is nothing about announcing a caller or asking 
a person to wait. She shoulders people out on the 
landing of the stairs or hurls them at your head. 

But there is the young man already inside, and I 
cannot hide him like a treasure in the adjoining 
room. I wait for him to explain his errand. This 
he does without embarrassment; but it seems to me 
that he has noticed the young girl, who is leaning 
over the table turning the pages of the Vecellio. 

I look at him. If I am not greatly mistaken, I 
have seen him somewhere before. His name is 
Gélis, a name I have somewhere heard. Monsieur 
Gélis (since Gélis it is) is a nice-looking young fel- 
low. He says that this is his third year in the Ecole 
des Chartes, and that for the last fifteen or eighteen 
months he has been working on his graduating 
thesis, the subject of which is the condition of the 
Benedictine abbeys in 1700. He has just read my 


1“ Craignez, Seigneur, craignez que le Ciel rigoureux 
Ne vous haisse assez pour exaucer vos veux ! 
Souvent dans sa colere il recoit nos victimes, 
Les présents sont souvent la peine de nos crimes.” 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 175 


works on the Monasticon ; and he knows positively 
that he cannot finish his thesis without my advice, 
in the first place, and then, without a certain manu- 
script which I have in my possession, and which is 
no other than the register of the accounts of the ab- 
bey of Citaux from 1683 to 1704. 

Having enlightened me on these points, he hands 
me a letter of introduction from one of the most dis- 
tinguished of my colleagues. 

Ah! at last I remember who he is. Monsieur 
Gélis is the very young man who a year ago, while 
we sat under the chestnut-trees, called me a fool; 
and as I open the letter of introduction, I think to 
myself, — 

“Ha! ha! you unfortunate young man. You 
have no idea that I heard you, and that I know what 
you think of me, or at least what you thought of 
me then —for these young heads are so fickle! I 
have you now, my friend. You are in the lion’s den; , 
and you came so suddenly that the old lion is taken 
by surprise, and knows not what to do with his prey. 
But you, old lion, would you be an imbecile? If 
you are not one, you were one. You were a fool to 
listen to Monsieur Gélis at the foot of the statue 
of Marguerite de Valois; a double fool for hearing 
him; and a triple fool for not forgetting what it 
would have been better not to hear at all.” 

Having thus reprimanded the old lion, I exhorted 
him to be kind. He did not seem to be very reluc- 
tant in this, and soon became so gay that he had to 
suppress his feelings in order that they might not 
burst forth in a joyous roar. 


176 THE CRIME OF 


From the way in which I read my colleague’s let- 
ter, it might have been thought that I did not know 
my letters. It took me a long time, and Monsieur 
Gélis might have grown tired waiting; but he was 
watching Jeanne, and took his punishment patiently. 
Jeanne occasionally turned her head in our direction. 
One cannot keep perfectly still, can one? Made- 
moiselle Préfére patted her curls, her breast heaving 
with little sighs. I must say that many times I have 
been honored by these little sighs. 

“Monsieur,” said I, folding the letter, “I am 
happy to be of service to you. You are occupied 
with researches which have been of great interest to 
me. I have done what I could. I realize as you 
do, and even more than you do, how much there still 
remains to be done. The manuscript that you ask 
for is at your service. You may take it away if you 
wish; but it is not of the smallest size, and I fear”? — 

“Oh, monsieur !” said Gélis, “« heavy books do not 
frighten me.” 

I begged the young man to wait for me; and I 
went into an adjoining closet for the register, which 
at first I failed to find, and which I evén despaired 
of ever finding, as I saw by certain signs that Thé- 
rése had been putting the closet in order. But 
the volume was so large and so heavy that Thérése 
had been unable to hide it completely. I raised it 
with difficulty, and was delighted to find it as heavy 
as I could have wished. 

“ Now, my boy,” said I to myself, with a smile 
which I meant to be very sarcastic, “now I am 
about to crush you. First this will be too much for 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 177 


your arms, and then too much for your brain. This 
is Sylvestre Bonnard’s first revenge. We shall see 
what next.” 

When I returned to the City of Books, I found 
Monsieur Gélis and Mademoiselle Jeanne talking 
together, if you please, as if they were the best of 
friends. Mademoiselle Préfére was preserving a 
discreet silence, but the other two were chattering 
like magpies. And about what? About Venetian 
red? Yes, exactly! About Venetien red! The 
little insinuating Gélis was telling Jeanne the secret 
of the dye with which, according to authentic ac- 
counts, the women of Titian and Veronese’s times 
colored their hair. And Mademoiselle Jeanne was 
giving her opinion as to the d/ond de miel and the 
blond d’or. 1 guessed that this rascal of a Vecellio 
was in the conspiracy, that they had been bending 
over the book, and that together they had admired 
the late doge’s wife, or some other patrician lady of 
Venice. 

But never mind! 1 appeared with my huge old 
book, thinking that Gélis would make a face. It 
was a porter’s burden, and my arms ached from it; 
but the young man took it as if it were a feather, 
and tucked it smilingly under his arm. Then he 
thanked me with few words, as I like to be thanked, 


reminded me that he had need of my advice, and » 


having made an appointment for another meeting, he 
bowed to us with all the ease in the world, and left. 
“Fine fellow, that,” said I. Jeanne turned over 
some of the pages of Vecellio without speaking. 
“Well! well!” I thought — 
And we went to Saint-Cloud. 


178 THE CRIME OF 


September-December. 

The visits to the old man have been repeated 
with such regularity that I am deeply grateful to 
Mademoiselle Préfére. At last she has a corner 
set apart for her in the City of Books. She says 
now, “my chair,” “my stool,” “(my pigeon-hole.” 
Her pigeon-hole is a shelf from which she exiled 
the poets of La Champagne in order to make room 
for her work-bag. She is very amiable, and I must 
be a monster not to like her. I suffer her in the 
literal sense of the word. But what would one not 
suffer for Jeanne’s sake? She gives to the City of 
Books a charm, the recollection of which is sweet 
to me long after she is gone. She is utterly igno- 
rant, but so gifted that when I show her a beautiful ” 
thing it seems to me as if I had never before seen 
it, and that she is the one who is showing it to me. 
So far, I have found it impossible to make her fol- 
low my thoughts; but I have often taken pleasure in 
following the bright but erratic train of hers. 

A more sensible man than myself would think of 
making her useful. But is not the faculty of being 
pleasant in itself useful in life? ~ Without being 
pretty, she attracts, and to attract is perhaps of as 
much use as to darn stockings. Besides, I am not 
immortal, and in all probability she will not be very 
much older when my notary (who is not Maitre 
Mouche) will read her a certain paper that I signed 
lately. 

I do not want any one but myself to provide for 
her, and give her a dowry. I am not, indeed, very 
rich, and the paternal heritage has not increased in 


* 


be 
SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 179 


my hands. One does not gather crowns by poring 
over old manuscripts. But my books, at the price 
paid to-day for this noble kind of merchandise, are 
worth something. On that shelf there are some 
poets of the sixteenth century that bankers would 
contend for with princes. And I think that these 
Heures of Simon Vostre would not pass unnoticed 
in the Hétel Silvestre, any more than these Preces 
pie collected for the use of Queen Claude. I have 
been careful to gather together and preserve all 
these rare and curious editions of which the City 
of Books is full, and for a long time I used to think 
that they were as necessary to my life as air and 
light. I have loved them well, and even to-day I 
cannot help smiling on them and caressing them. 
These morocco bindings are so pleasing to the eye, 
and these vellums so soft to the touch! There is 
not a single one of these books that, for some par- 
ticular reason, is not worthy of the esteem of a good 
man. What other owner will know how to prize 
them as they deserve? If only I were sure that 
their next master would not leave them to go to 
rack and ruin, or mutilate them under the impulse 
of some ignorant whim. Into whose hands will fall 
this incomparable copy of the //istoire de 1’ Abbaye 
de Saint-Germain-des-Prés, on the margins of which 
the author himself, as Jacques Bouillard, wrote sub- 
stantial notes with his own hand? 

Maitre Bonnard, you are an old booby! Your 
housekeeper, poor thing, is kept in bed to-day by 
a severe attack of rheumatism. Jeanne is coming 
with her chaperon; and, instead of thinking how 





9 were ane 


180 THE CRIME OF 


‘ 
best to entertain them, you are dwelling on a thou- 
sand foolish thoughts. Sylvestre Bonnard, you will 


" never accomplish anything, and I tell you so myself! 


At this moment I see them from my window, get- 
ting out of the omnibus. Jeanne springs down like 
a kitten; but Mademoiselle Préfére intrusts herself 
to the strong arms of the conductor with the mod- 
estf, of a Virginia saved from shipwreck, and re- 

a: this time to letting herself be saved. Jeanne 
raises her head, sees me, and laughs ; and Mademoi- 
selle Préfére checks her as she is about to wave her 
parasol at me. There is a degree of civilization 
which Mademoiselle Jeanne will never reach. You 


‘may teach her, if you will, every art (I am not speak- 


ing especially to Mademoiselle Préfére now), but you 


will never teach her manners. | Being agreeable, she \ 


makes the mistake of being so in her own way. Only 
an old scatterbrain like myself could forgive this. 
As to the young scatterbrains (some of them are still 
found), I do not know what they think about it; it 
is none of my business. 


See her as she trips along the sidewalk, wrapped — 


in her cloak, her hat tilted back, the feather blow- 
ing in the breeze like a brig‘adorned with flags. And 
truly she has the graceful, proud bearing of a fine 
sailing-vessel; so much so, that I recollect how one 
day when I was at Havre — 

But must I tell you again, Bonnard, my friend, 
that your housekeeper is in bed, and that you must 
open the door yourself 2+ “Open it, Good Old Win- 
ter — Spring is ringing the bell! 

It is Jeanne herself — Jeanne, rosy red. After a 


- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 181 


-moment or two, Mademoiselle Préfére reaches the 
landing et Sean 

I explained about’ my housekeeper, and suggested 
dining at the restaurant; but Thérése, all-power- 
ful still, on her bed of pain, decided that we must 
dine at home. Respectable people, in her opinion, 
do not dine at restaurants. Moreover, she had ar- 
ranged for everything. The dinner was bought, and 
the janitress was to cook it. j 

Rash Jeanne wanted to go and see if the poor 
old sick woman did not need something. As you 
may suppose, she was sent quickly back to the draw- 
ing-room without ceremony, but with less roughness 
than I had reason to fear. 

“If I need anything, which I don’t, thank God,” 
came the answer, “I will find some one less dainty 
than you. Ineed rest. This is a merchandise which 
you do not find sold at fairs under the sign of ‘place 


a finger on your lips.” Go back and have a good > 


time, and do not stay here, for fear old age may be 
contagious.” 

Jeanne told us what she said, and added that she 
greatly liked to hear old Thérése talk, whereupon 
Mademoiselle Préfére reproached her for having 
such low taste. 

_ I strove to excuse her by mentioning the example 
of Moliére. 

Then it happened that as she climbed up on my 
ladder to look for a book, Jeanne let a whole row 
fall. They made a loud crash; and Mademoiselle 


Préfére, in her affectation of sensitiveness, had al’ | 


slight attack of hysterics. Jeanne quickly followed 


182 THE CRIME OF 


the books to the foot of the ladder. She was the 
kitten changed to a woman, catching mice meta- 
morphosed into old books. One of them attracted 
her; and she began to read, seated on her heels. It 
was Prince Grenoutlle, she said. Mademoiselle Pré- 
fére seized this opportunity to complain that Jeanne 
had so little liking for poetry. She could not be 
made to recite perfectly the Death of Joan of Arc, 
by Casimir Delavigne. It was all she could do to 
remember the Petit Savoyard. The schoolmistress 
did not approve of reading the Prince Grenoutlle 
before knowing by heart the stanzas by Duperrier. 
Carried away by her enthusiasm, she recited in a 
voice that was softer than the bleating of a sheep : — 


“Ta douleur, Duperrier, sera donc éternelle, 
Et les tristes discours 

Que te met en lesprit l’amitié paternelle 
Laugmenteront toujours ; 


Je sais de quels appas son enfance était pleine, 
Et nai pas entrepris, 

Injurieux ami de consoler ta peine 
Avecque son mépris.” 


Then she went into raptures. 

“Oh, how beautiful it is! What harmony! How 
is it possible not to admire such sweet, such touch- 
ing verses. But why did Malherbe speak of this 
poor Monsieur Duperrier, who was already broken 
down from the loss of his daughter, as an zzjurdeux 
ami? Injurieux amt, You must admit that the 
term is harsh.” 


_ SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 183 


I explained to the poetic creature that the zzju- 
rieux ami which so greatly shocked ler was an 
apposition, etc. What I told her seemed to clear 
her head to such a degree that she was:seized with 
a great longing to sneeze. Prince Grenouille, mean- 
time, must have been very funny; for Jeanne, from 
her seat on the floor, could scarcely keep from 
laughing aloud. When she had finished with the 
prince and princess of the story, and the innumer- 
able children they never fail to have, she assumed 
a beseeching expression, and teased me to let her, 
as a favor, put on a white apron, and go into the 
kitchen to see about the dinner. 

“ Jeanne,” I replied with the seriousness of a mas- 
ter, “I think that if it is a question of breaking the 
plates, notching the dishes, denting the saucepans, 
and staving in the kettles, the creature whom 
Thérése has established in the kitchen is all-suffi- 
cient, for at this very moment I seem to hear dis- 
astrous sounds from there. However, Jeanne, I put 
you in charge of the dessert. Go and get a white 
apron. I will tie it around you myself.” 

I solemnly tied the linen apron around her waist ; 
and she fled into the kitchen, where, as we discov- 
ered later, she proceeded to concoct preparations 
unknown to Vatel, unknown even to the great Ca- 
réme, who began his treatise on fancy dishes as 
follows: “ The Fine Arts number five: Painting, 
Music, Poetry, Sculpture, and Architecture, the 
principal branch of which is Pastry.” 

I could not congratulate myself on this little 
arrangement; for Mademoiselle Préfére, now that 


184 THE CRIME OF 


she was alone with me, began to behave in a very 
alarming manner. She gazed at me with eyes full 
of tears and strange lights, and heaved deep sighs. 

“Tam so sorry for you,” said she. ‘A man like 
you, a man of such refinement as you are, to live 
alone with a coarse servant (for she is coarse, 
there is no denying that). What a hard life! You 
need rest, care, attention of every kind; you may 
be taken ill. And there is not a woman who would 
not consider it an honor to bear your name and 
share your existence. No, not one. My heart tells 
me so.” 

And she pressed both hands upon her heart, 
which, apparently, was in constant danger of escap- 
ing from her. 

I was literally at my wits’ end. I strove to show 
Mademoiselle Préfére that I had not the slightest 
intention of making a change in my mode of living 
at my advanced age, and that I was as happy as I 
could be with my disposition and circumstances. 

“No!” cried she; “you are not happy. You 
need a soul close by you that is capable of under- 
standing you. Rouse yourself from your torpor, 
and look about you. You have wide connections 
and delightful acquaintances. One cannot be a 
member of the Institute without mingling in society. 
See, think, compare. No sensible woman would 
refuse you. I am a woman, monsieur, and my in- 
stincts do not deceive me. There is something 
in my heart that tells me you would find happiness. 
in marriage. Women are so devoted, so loving 
(not all, of course, but some). And then, they are 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 185 


sensitive to glory. You know that at your age a 
man needs, like CEdipus, an Egeria. Your house- 
keeper is no longer strong. She is deaf; she is 
infirm. Suppose anything should happen to you 
in the night! The very thought of it makes me 
shudder!” 

And she actually shuddered. She closed her eyes, 
clinched her fists, and stamped her foot. My dismay 
was unspeakable. With what terrifying ardor she 
continued, — 

“Your health! Your dear health! The health 
of a member of the Institute! I would gladly give 
every drop of my blood to prolong the life of a 
scholar, a writer, a man of distinction. And a 
woman who would not be willing to do as much, 
I should despise. Monsieur, I once knew the wife 
of a great mathematician, a man who made long 
calculations in blank-books, and filled the closets of 
his house with the volumes. He had trouble with 
his heart, and was visibly wasting away. I saw his 
wife sitting quietly by his side. I could not help 
saying to her one day, ‘ My dear, you have no feel- 
ing. If I were in your place, I should do, I should 
do—TI do not know what I should do!’” 

She paused, exhausted. I was in a terrible posi- 
tion. It was out of the question to tell Mademoi- 
selle Préfére all I thought of her suggestions, for 
if I made her angry I should lose Jeanne. There- 
fore I took it quietly. Besides, she was my guest. 
This thought helped me to be more courteous. 

“TI am very old, mademoiselle,” said I; “and I 
fear that your advice comes a little too late. How- 


186 THE CRIME OF 


ever, I will think of it. In the meantime, I beg you 
to be calm. A glass of eau sucrée would do you 
good.” 

To my great surprise, my words calmed her at 
once; and she returned quietly to her chair in her 
corner, near her pigeon-hole, her feet on her stool. 

The dinner was completely spoiled. Mademoi- 
selle Préfére, lost in her own thoughts, took no no- 
tice of it. I am usually very sensitive about such 
things; but this one was such fun for Jeanne, that 
after a while I, too, couldn’t help enjoying it. I had 
never known before, even at my age, that there was 
anything funny in a chicken burned on one side 
and raw on the other; but Jeanne’s merry laughter 
showed me that such was the case. This chicken 
was the cause of our making a thousand very witty 
remarks, all of which I have now forgotten, and I 
was delighted that it had not been properly cooked. 
Jeanne put it back again on the spit; then she took 
it and broiled it; then she stewed it in butter. And 
each time it came back to the table it was less pal- 
atable and more hilarious than before. When we 
ate it at last, it was a thing which had no name in 
any kitchen. 

The almond cake was still more extraordinary. 
It was brought in in its pan, because it could not 
be got out of it. I asked Jeanne to serve it herself, 
thinking to embarrass her. But she broke the pan, 
and gave us each a piece. The idea would never 
enter any but the most innocent head that one 
at my age could eat such things. Mademoiselle 
Préfére, aroused from her musing, indignantly re- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 187 


pulsed the piece of earthenware covered with burnt 
sugar, and took the opportunity to inform me confi- 
dentially that she excelled in making candy. 

“Oh!” cried Jeanne, in a tone of surprise not 
wholly devoid of mischief. 

Then she wrapped all the pieces of the pan ina 
bit of paper, intending to take them to her young 
friends, and especially to the three Misses Mouton, 
who are naturally inclined to gormandizing. 

Secretly I was very much troubled. It seemed 
to me almost impossible to remain long on good 
terms with Mademoiselle Préfére, whose matrimo- 
nial designs had burst forth with such fury. And 
that lady gone, good-by to Jeanne! 

I took advantage of the moment when the gentle 
soul went for her cloak, to ask Jeanne exactly what 
her own age was. She was eighteen years and one 
month old. I counted on my fingers, and found 
that she would not be of age till the end of two 
years and eleven months. What should we do dur- 
ing all that time? 

When she parted from me, Mademoiselle Préfére 
squeezed my hand with so much meaning that I 
trembled in every limb. 

“Good-by,” I said gravely to the young girl. 
“Listen to me, my dear; this friend of yours is 
old, and may fail you. Tell me that you will always 
be true to yourself, and I shall be easy. God bless 
you, my child!” 

I closed the door, and opened my window to watch 
her go. But the night was dark, and I saw only 
dim shadows gliding across the black quay. A 


108 THE CRIME OF 


great, dull hum rose about me, and my heart almost 
stopped beating. 

Poor child ! 

December 15. 

The King of Thule had a golden goblet which 
his mistress had left him as a souvenir. When he 
was almost dying, feeling that he had drunk from it 
for the last time, he flung the goblet into the sea. 
I am keeping this book of memories as the aged 
prince of the misty seas kept his golden goblet; and 
just as he threw his love-token into the waves, I will 
burn this book of memories. Not from any feeling 
of haughty avarice or selfish pride shall I destroy 
this record of a humble life; but I am afraid that 
the things which are dear and sacred to me may, 
because of their being inartistically expressed, seem 
ordinary and absurd to others. 

I do not say this in view of what follows. Ab- 
surd I certainly was when, having been invited to 
dine at Mademoiselle Préfére’s, I sat down in an 
easy-chair (it was indeed such) on the right of this 
alarming person. The table was set in a small 
drawing-room, and I saw from the poor condition 
of the table furniture that the schoolmistress was 
one of those ethereal beings that soar above the 
realities of earth. Broken plates, odd glasses, loose- 
handled knives, yellow forks — nothing was missing 
to take away the appetite of an honest man. 

I was told that the dinner had been cooked for 
me — for me alone, though Maitre Mouche was 
there also. Mademoiselle Préfére must have ima- 
gined that I had a Sarmatian’s taste for butter; for 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 189 


that which she offered me, made into little thin pats, 
was to the last degree rancid. 

The roast put the finishing stroke to my disgust. 
But I had the pleasure of hearing Maitre Mouche 
and Mademoiselle Préfére talk about virtue. I said 

- the pleasure, I should have said the shame, for the 
sentiments they expressed are far too much for my 
worldly nature. 

What they said showed me as clear as day that 
devotion was their daily bread, and that self-sacrifice 
was as necessary to them as air and water. Seeing 
that I was not eating, Mademoiselle Préfére tried in 
a thousand ways to overcome what she was good 
enough to term my discretion. 

Jeanne was not of the company; because it was 
said, her presence, as an exceptional favor, would 
have been contrary to the rule of impartiality so 
necessary to maintain among so many young eis) 
I inwardly congratulated her on having escaped the 
Merovingian butter, the huge radishes, as empty as 
ballot-boxes, the tough roast, and the various other 
curiosities of cooking to which I had exposed myself 
for love of her. 

\The weary-looking servant served a liquid saat \ 
for some occult reason they called a “cream,” and 
then disappeared like a shadow. — 

Then, with great ecstasy, Mademoiselle Préfére 
related all that she had said to me in the City of 
Books, while my housekeeper was in bed. Her ad- 
miration for a member of the Institute, her fear that 
I might be ill and alone, the certainty she felt that 
an intelligent woman would be proud and happy to V 


190 THE CRIME OF 


share my lot—she made no concealment of any 
of it; on the contrary, she added new absurdities. 
Maitre Mouche nodded approvingly as he cracked 
the nuts; then, after all this waste of words, he 
asked, with a pleasant smile, what I had answered. 

Mademoiselle Préfére, placing one hand on her - 
heart, and raising the other toward me, cried, — 

‘He is so affectionate, so superior, so good, and 
so great! He answered — but I could not —I,a 
simple woman, repeat the words of a member of 
the Institute. All I can do is to give you the sub- 
stance of them. He answered, ‘ Yes; I understand 
you; Yes.” 

Having thus spoken, she seized one of my hands. 
Maitre Mouche, greatly moved, rose and took the 
other. 

“ I congratulate you, monsieur,” said he. 

I have at times in my life known the meaning of 
fear, but never before had I experienced such a 
nauseating terror. I felt a sickening fright. 

Disengaging my two hands, I rose, in order to 
give all possible dignity to my words. 

«“ Madame,” said I, “ either I made a poor expla- 
nation at my house, or I have misunderstood you 
here. In either case, a positive explanation is ne- 
cessary. Permit me, madame, to make it in plain 
words. No, I did not understand you. I am abso- 
lutely ignorant of the match you may have in view 
for me, if indeed you have planned any such. In 
any case I do not wish to marry. At my age it 
would be an unpardonable folly; and even now, at 
this late day, I cannot imagine how any sensible 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. Ig! 


woman like yourself could suggest such a thing to 

me. I have even every reason to think that I am L 
mistaken, and that you suggested nothing of the 
kind. If this is the case, you will forgive an old 

man, who has become unfamiliar with the ways of 
society, and but little accustomed to the conversa- 

tion of ladies, and who is heartbroken over his 
blunder.” 

Maitre Mouche went quietly back to his chair, 
and, as the nuts were all cracked, began to whittle 
a cork. 

Mademoiselle Préfére gazed at me for an instant 
out of her small round dry eyes with a peculiar ex- 
pression, which I had never seen there before, and 
then resumed her usual grace and sweetness. Ina 
voice like honey she exclaimed, — 

«“ Oh, these scholars! these cloistered men! they 
are like children. Yes, Monsieur Bonnard, you are 
a veritable child!” 

Then, turning to the notary, who sat in silence, his 
nose on his cork, she cried in a beseeching tone, — 

“ Oh, do not accuse him! Donot condemn him! 
Do not think ill of him! I beg you,do not. Must 
I beg you on my knees?” 

Maitre Mouche examined his cork on every side 
without vouchsafing any word. 

I was furious; and, to judge from the heat in my ~ 
head, my cheeks must have been crimson. This 
circumstance, I suppose, must be the explanation of 
the words which I heard through the buzzing in my 
ears : — 

“ Our poor friend frightens me. Monsieur Mouche, 


192 THE CRIME OF 


be kind enough to open the window. Perhaps an 
arnica compress would be good for him.” 

I rushed into the street with an indescribable feel- 
ing of shame. 

My poor Jeanne! 

December 20. 

A week passed without my hearing a word from 
the Préfére Institute. Not being able to wait longer 
without news of Clémentine’s daughter, and think- 
ing, too, that I owed it to myself not to give up 
going to the place, I set out on the road to les 
Ternes. The parlor seemed colder, damper, more 
inhospitable, more hateful, and the servant more 
scared and more silent than ever. I asked for 
Jeanne; but after the lapse of some time Mademoi- 
selle Préfére herself appeared, stern and pale, with 
drawn ‘ips and cruel eyes. 


“ Monsieur,” said she, folding her arms under her \ 


pélerine, “1 deeply regret my inability to allow you 
to see Mademoiselle Alexandre to-day, but it is im- 
possible.” 

“ And why so?” I asked in astonishment. 

“ Monsieur,” she replied, “the reasons that com- 
pel me to have your calls here made less frequently 
are of a peculiarly delicate nature, and I beg you to 
spare me the embarrassment of mentioning them.” 

“Madame,” I replied, “I am authorized by 
Jeanne’s guardian to see his ward every day. What 
reason can you have for opposing the wish of Mon- 
sieur Mouche?” 

«« Mademoiselle Alexandre’s guardian” (she dwelt 
on the word guardian as on a firm support) “is as 


\ 


\ 


SVYLVESTRE BONMNARD. 193 


anxious as I am to have your assiduities come to an 
end.” 

“If this is the case, be kind enough to give me 
his reasons as well as yours.” 

She gazed at the little paper spiral, and replied 
with stern calmness, — 

“You really wish this? Although such an ex- 
planation is hard for a woman to make, I yield to 
your demand. This house, monsieur, is a respect- 
able house. I have my responsibility. I must 
watch like a mother over each of my pupils. Your 
attentions to Mademoiselle Alexandre cannot con- 
tinue without harming this young girl. My duty is 
to see that they are stopped.” 

“T fail to understand you,” I said; and it was the 
truth. She replied slowly, — 

“Your constant visits to this house are inter- 
preted by people, even by the most respectable and 
the least suspicious, in such a way that I am obliged 
in the interest of my school, as well as in the interest 
of Mademoiselle Alexandre, to stop them as soon as 
possible.” 

“ Madame,” I cried, “I have heard a great many 
foolish things in my life, but never one that can 
compare to what you have just said!” 

She replied simply, — 

«“ Your insults do not affect me in the least. A 
woman is very strong in the performance of a duty.” 

And she pressed her félerine against her heart, 
this time not to restrain, but probably to caress, 
that generous heart. 

“ Madame,” said I with uplifted finger, “you 


194 THE CRIME OF 


have roused the indignation of an old man. Act in 
future in such a way that the old man may forget 
you, and add no new misdeeds to those I already 
have witnessed. I warn you, that I shall not keep 
from watching over Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexan- 
dre. If in any way whatsoever you harm her, it 
will go hard with you!” 

As I grew angrier she became more calm, and 
she put on a fine air of indifference as she re- 
plied, — 

“Monsieur, I am too well acquainted with the 
nature of the interest you take in this young girl, 
not to do all in my power to withdraw her from the 
surveillance with which you threaten me. Seeing 
the more than equivocal intimacy in which you live 
with your housekeeper, I should have prevented 
you from ever coming into contact with an innocent 
young girl. I shall do so in the future. If hith- 
erto I have been too unsuspicious, not you, but 
Mademoiselle Alexandre, can reproach me. But 
she is too artless, tod pure, thanks to me, to suspect 
the nature of the danger to which you have exposed 
her. You will not compel me, I presume, to en- 
lighten her in regard to it.” 

“Well,” said I to myself, shrugging my shoul- 
ders, “you have had to live until now, my poor 
Bonnard, to know exactly what a bad woman is. 
At present your knowledge is complete in this line.” 

I went out without a word; and I had the pleasure 
of seeing, from the quick blush on the schoolmis- 
tress’s face, that she was more affected by my silence 
than she had been by my words. I crossed the 


— 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 15 


court, looking right and left for Jeanne. She was 
on the watch for me, and came running to me. 

“If a hair of your head is touched, Jeanne, write 
me. Good-by.” 

“ No! not gogd-by!”. 

I answered, “ No, no! not good-by. Write to me.” 


I went straight to Madame de Gabry’s. 

“ Madame is in Rome with monsieur. Did you 
not know, monsieur?”’ 

«“ Ah, yes,”’ I replied ; ‘madame wrote me about 
it.” So in truth she had done. I must have lost 
my head to forget it. This was probably what the 
servant thought; for he looked at me as much as to 
say, “ Monsieur Bonnard is in his dotage,”’ and he 
leaned over the railing of the stairs to see if I did 
not do something peculiar. But I walked down as 
usual, and he withdrew disappointed. 

On my return, I was told that Monsieur Gélis was 
in the drawing-room. This young man is constantly 
at my house. His judgment is sometimes faulty, 
but his mind is above the ordinary. This time his 
call brought nothing but embarrassment on me. 
“Alas!” I thought, “I shall certainly say some- 
thing foolish to my young friend; and he, too, will 


think I am breaking down. And yet I cannot ex-, 


plain to him that I have been sought in marriage, 
and condemned as an immoral man; that Thérése 
is under suspicion, and that Jeanne is in the power of 
the most wicked woman onearth. I am ina fine state 
of mind to discuss Cistercian abbeys with a young 
and over-critical scholar. But come, let us go in. 


) 


196 THE CRIME OF 


Thérése stopped me, however. 

“‘ How red your face is, monsieur!” she said in a 
tone of repréach. 

“It is the spring,” I answered. 

“The spring in the month of December!” she 
cried. 

True, it is the month of December! Ah! how 
my head feels! What a strong support am I to 
poor Jeanne! 

“ Thérése, take my cane, and put it, if you possi- 
bly can, where it can be found. Good-afternoon, 
Monsieur Gélis. How are you?” 

No date. 

The following day the poor old fellow started to 
rise, but the poor old fellow was unable to do so. 
Cruel was the unseen hand that laid him low upon 
his bed. The poor old fellow, pinned down as he 
was, resigned himself to the inevitable, but his 
thoughts were not idle. 

He must have had a high fever; for Mademoiselle 
Préfére, the abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and 
Madame de Gabry’s servant appeared to him under 
fantastic forms, especially the servant, who leaned 
over him, grinning like a gargoyle on a cathedral. 
I had an idea that there were a great many people, 
too many, in my room. 

This room is furnished in olden style. On the 
wall hang the portrait of my father in full-dress uni- 
form, and that of myNnother in a cachemire robe. 
The wall-paper has a design of green leaves and 
flowers. I realize this. I @ven realize that it is all 
very much faded, but an old man’s room does not 







, SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 197 


e daintily pretty. It is enough’ if it is 
Thérése sees to that. Then, further- 
ficiently decorated to please my fancy, 
ifle childish and prosaic. On the walls 
re there are figures which ordinarily 
speak to me and enliven me. But why are all these 
things angry at me to-day? They seem discordant ; 
they grin at me; they threaten me. The statuette, 
copied from one of\the cardinal Virtues at Notre- 
Dame de Brou, unaffécted and graceful as it usually 
appears, is now making\contortions, and putting out 
itstongueatme. And that beautiful miniature, which 
represents one of Jehan Fouquet’s most gracious dis- 
ciples, girt with the cord \of the sons of Francis, 
offering, on bended knee, his, book to the good Duke 
of Angouléme — who has renioved it from its frame, 
and substituted a great cat’s Te glaring at me 









more, it is 
which is a 


with phosphorescent eyes? e designs on the 
wall-paper have become heads toa, green and shape- 
less. No, they are not; they are \to-day what they 
were twenty years ago, — nothing but stamped leaves 
and flowers. No, I was right, they, are heads — 
heads with eyes, noses, and mouths\ Heads! I 
understand ; they are heads and flowers\at the same 
time. I wish I did not see them at all. \ 

There, on my right, the graceful miniature of the 
Franciscan friar has returned; but it seems to me 
that I retain it by a superhuman effort of my will, 
and that if I relax my effort the wretched cat’s head 
will come back. {1 am not delirious. I see Thérése 
perfectly at the foot of my bed. I hear her speak- 
ing to me, and I should answer with perfect clear- 





198 THE CRIME OF 


ness if I were not busy keeping everything about me 
in its natural form. 

Here comes the doctor. I did not send for him, 
but I am glad tosee him. He is an old neighbor, to 
whom I have been of little profit, but whom I like 
exceedingly. Although I do not say much to him, I 
am at least perfectly conscious, even strangely crafty ; 
for I notice his gestures, his looks, the smallest wrin- 
kles on his face. But he is shrewd, and I do not 
really know what he thinks of me. The mighty 
thought of Goethe comes to my mind, and I say, — 

** Doctor, this old man has consented to grow ill, 
but he will allow nature no further concessions this 
time.” 

Neither the doctor nor Thérése smiles at my jest. 
They cannot have understood it. 

The doctor takes his leave, daylight fades, and 
all sorts of shadows form and break, like clouds, 
among the folds of my curtains. They pass in crowds 
before me, and through them I see the impassive - 
face of my faithful servant. All at once a cry, a’ 
sharp cry of distress, falls upon my ear. Is it you, 
Jeanne, calling to me? 

Night has come. The shadows cluster about my 
bed, to remain by me through the long night. 

At daybreak I feel a peace, a wonderful peace, 
about me. 

Art thou opening thine arms to me, O Lord, my 
God? 

; February, 186-. 

The doctor is perfectly jovial. It seems that I am 
doing him great honor by recovering. Numberless 


\ 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 199 


ills, I understand, have been poured out over my 


old poey| 
These ills, which are the bane of man, have names 
which are the bane of the philologist. They are hy- 
brid nameSphalf Greek, half Latin, ending in 7¢zs, 
indicating the in atory state, and in alga, ex- 
pressing pain, The doc es them with a number 
of adjectives ending in zc, which.serve to character- 
ize their detestable qualities — in slert, a good half 
of the complete copy of the medical dictionary con- 
tained in the too authentic box of Pandora. 
“ Doctor, that story of Pandora is a good one. If 
‘I were a poet, I would put it into French verse. 
[Shake hands, doctor. You have brought me back 
to life. I forgive you. You have restored me to my 
friends, and I thank you. I am all sound, you say. 
No doubt, no doubt; but I have endured a great 
deal. / I am an old piece of furniture, quite like my 
father’s armchair. It was an armchair which that 
honest man inherited, and in which he sat from 
morning to night. Twenty times a day, when I was 
a little boy, I used to perch on the arm of that old 
chair. So long as it was in good condition, no one 
paid any attention to it; but the moment it began to 
limp with one leg, we said what a good chair it was. 
After a while, three of its legs went lame, the fourth 
squeaked, and both of its arms were half gone. 
_ Then we exclaimed, ‘What a strong armchair!’ 
We wondered how, being without a sound arm ora 
firm leg, it could still look like an armchair, retain 
an upright position, and be of use. But the horse- 
hair came out of its body, and it gave up the ghost. 











209 LTHE CRIME OF 


And when Cyprien, our servant, cut off its legs for 
fire-wood the shouts of admiration increased. ‘The 
fine, the wonderful old armchair! It was used by 
Pierre-Sylvestre Bonnard, dry-goods merchant, by 
his son Epiménide Bonnard, and by Jean-Baptiste 
Bonnard, chief of the third maritime division and 
a Pyrrhonic philosopher. What a strong and ven- 
erable armchair!’ In reality it was a dead arm- 
chair. Well, doctor, such an armchair am I. You 
think me sound because I have resisted attacks 
which would have killed many, but which killed 
me only three-quarters. Many thanks. Neverthe- 
less, I am an irrevocably damaged article.” 
[ The doctor strives, by the help of long Greek and 
atin terms, to prove that I am still hale and hearty ; 
but French is too simple a language for an explana- 
tion of that kind. However, I admit what he says, 
and escort him to my door. 

“Good!” says Thérése. “That is the way to 
put out a doctor. If you will only repeat it two 
or three times, he will not return, and that would be 
a good thing.” 

“Well, Thérése, now. that I am a strong man 
again, do not detain my letters any longer. There 
is a good pile of them, no doubt, and it would be 
wicked to keep me longer from reading them.” 

Thérése, after some delay, gave themtome. But 
what did it matter? I looked at every envelope, 
and not one was written by the little hand that I 
longed to see here, turning over the pages of Ve- 
cellio. I tossed aside the whole pile, for they no 
longer appealed to me. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 201 


April-June. 

The discussion has been a warm one. 

“Wait, monsieur, until I put on some suitable 
things,” said Thérése, “and I will walk out again 
with you. I will take your folding-chair as I have 
done for the past few days, and we will go and sit 
in the sunshine.” 

The truth is, Thérése thinks that I am infirm. I 
have been ill, no doubt, but there is an end to all 
things. Madame Illness departed long since; and 
three months ago her pale and gentle-faced hand- 
maid, Dame Convalescence, politely bade me good- 
‘by. Were I to listen to my housekeeper, I should 
be “ Monsieur Argant,” and I should-wear a night- 
cap trimmed with ribbons for the rest of my days. 
Anything but that! I intend to go out by myself. 
Thérése will not hear to it. She brings my folding- 
chair, and follows me. 

“ Thérése, to-morrow we will take our seat by the 
wall of da Petite Provence if you like, but to-day 
I have important business to attend to.” 

Business! She thinks I refer to money matters, 
and explains that there is nothing important to be 
decided. 

“So much the better! But there is other busi- — 
ness besides that in the world.” 

I tease, I scold, I escape. 

The day is fair, By means of a hack, and by 
the help of God, I shall accomplish my adventur- 
ous design. 

Here is the wall, bearing in blue letters the words: 
PENSIONNAT DE DEMOISELLES, TENU PAR MA— 


202 THE CRIME OF 


DEMOISELLE VIRGINIE PREFERE. Here is the iron 
gate which would give entrance into the court of 
honor if it ever were opened. But the lock is rusty ; 
and between the bars, sheet-iron has been placed, 
as a protection against indiscreet eyes that might 
be turned upon the young souls, whom, no doubt, 
Mademoiselle Préfére instructs in modesty, sincer- 
ity, justice, and disinterestedness. Here, indicating 
the domestic part of the establishment, is a barred 
window, with painted panes, like a sightless eye, 
the sole opening to the outside world. 

The narrow door by which I have entered so 
often, and which henceforth is closed to me, is the 
same as it was, with its barred grating. The stone 
steps leading to it are worn; and though the eyes 
behind my glasses are none too good, I can distin- 
guish little white scratches made on the stone by 
the nails in the scholars’ heels as they pass in and 
out. Cannot I also enter? It seems to me that 
Jeanne must be suffering in this gloomy house, and 
that she is secretly calling me. I cannot go away. 
Iam filled with anxiety. I ring the bell; the fright- 
ened servant-girl answers it, looking more frightened 
than ever. The order has been given. I cannot 
see Mademoiselle Jeanne. I at least ask how she 
is. The servant, having glanced to the right and 
left, replies that she is well, and shuts the door in 
my face. Once more I am in the street. 

And since then how often have I wandered be- 
neath that wall, before that little door, ashamed, 
and in despair at being weaker than the poor girl 
who has no other protection on earth but mine! 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 203 


June 10. 


I overcame my repugnance, and went to see Mai- 
tre Mouche. I noticed at first glance that his office 
was dustier and mustier than it was a year ago. 
The notary appeared with his angular gestures and 
his restless eyes behind their glasses. I made my 
complaint to him. He replied —but of what use 
is it to note down in a diary that will be burned 
my reminiscences of a downright scoundrel, He 
approves of all that is done by Mademoiselle Pré- 
fére, whose mind and character he has for many 
years held in high appreciation. It is not for him 
to give an opinion on the subject under discussion; 
but on the face of it, he must say that appearances 
are against me. That concerns me but little. He 
adds — and this concerns me more —that the pal- 
try sum which he had in his hands for his ward’s 
education is exhausted, and that under these cir- 
cumstances he cannot but admire the disinterested- 
ness of Mademoiselle Préfére, who has consented to 
keep Mademoiselle Jeanne with her. 

A brilliant flood of sunshine, the light of a fair 
day, pours its incorruptible waves into this sordid 
den and illuminates this man. Without, it spreads 
its glory over all the poverty and wretchedness of a 
thickly populated district. 

How sweet is this light with which my eyes have 
so Jong been filled, and which in a short time I 
shall no longer enjoy! 

I go away, and in a dreamy state of mind, with 
y hands behind my back, wander along the fortifi- 
ations, and find myself, to my surprise, in one of the 







204 THE CRIME OF 


out-of-the-way faubourgs where mean little gardens 
abound.) By the dusty roadside I come upon a 
plant, the flower of which, at once bright and som- 
bre, seems made to be associated with the noblest 
‘ and the purest grief. It is the columbine. Our 
fathers called it Le gant de Notre-Dame. Only a 
Notre-Dame who should make herself very small, 
so as to be seen by children, could slip her dainty 
fingers into the tiny capsules of this flower. 

Here comes a big bumblebee, diving into it with 
brutal energy; but his mouth cannot reach the nec- 
tar, and the glutton strives in vain. At last he gives 
up, and comes out all smeared with pollen. He re- 
sumes his heavy flight; but there are few flowers in 
this faubourg, blackened by the soot of factories. 
He comes flying back to the columbine; and this 
time he pierces the corolla, and drinks the nectar 
through the opening he has made. I would not 
have believed that a bumblebee would have so 
much sense. It is wonderful ! 

The more I observe insects and flowers, the more 
they surprise me. I am like the good Rollin, who 
found such intense delight in the flowers of his 
peach-trees. I should like to own a beautiful gar- 
den, and live on the edge of a wood. 


August-September. 
One Sunday morning the idea came into my 
mind to watch the pupils of Mademoiselle Préfére’s 
school as they went to mass in the parish church. 
I saw them pass two by two, the smaller ones lead- 
ing, with serious faces. Three of them were plump, 


i 


_— 


ae 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 205 - 


short, important-looking girls, dressed exactly alike. 
These I recognized as the Misses Mouton. Their 
elder sister is the artist who drew the terrible head 
of Tatius, King of the Sabines. - A little aloof from 
the line, the under-teacher, with her prayer-book in 
her hand, was fussing \about and scowling darkly. 
The middle class, and ‘then the big girls, passed 
along whispering. But I did not see Jeanne. 

I asked at the department of education if there 
was not among the records\ something about the 
school in the rue Demours. [succeeded in having 


_ some female inspectors sent there. They returned, 


bringing the best accounts. In\their opinion the 
Préfére school was a model institution. If I insti- 
gated any investigation, Mademoiselle-Préfére would 
surely receive scholastic honors! 


October 3. 

This Thursday being a holiday, I met the three 
ittle Misses Mouton near the rue Demours. I 
bowed to their mother, and asked the eldest, who 
might have been ten years old, how her friend 
Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre was. Little Made- 
moiselle Mouton replied without an instant’s hes- 
itation, — 

“Jeanne Alexandre is not my friend. She is a 
charity pupil in the school, and so she is made to 
sweep the class-rooms. Mademoiselle said so. And 
Jeanne Alexandre is wicked too, and she is shut up 
in a dark room, and it serves her right. I am good. 
They do not shut me up in a dark room.” 

The three little ladies resumed their walk, followed 


206 THE CRIME OF 


closely by Madame Mouton, who gave me a look of 

distrust over her broad shoulder. 

Alas! I am forced to resort to questionable expe- 
dients. Madame de Gabry will not return to Paris 
for three months at the earliest. Away from her I 
have neither tact nor sense. I am but a clumsy, 
awkward, and deleterious machine. 

Nevertheless, Jeanne must not be a servant in a 
boarding-school ! 

1¥} December 28. 

\ The thought of Jeanne sweeping the class-rooms 
had become perfectly intolerable to me. 

The weather was cold and gloomy. Night was 
already beginning to fall. I rang at the little door 
with the calmness of a man whose mind was made 
up. As soon as the frightened servant appeared, I 
slipped a gold piece into her hand, and promised her 
another if she succeeded in letting me see Made- 
moiselle Alexandre. She answered, — 

“Tn an hour, at the grated window.” 

And she slammed the door in my face so violently 
that it knocked my hat into the gutter. 

I waited a long hour in the midst of a whirling 
snow-storm; then I approached the window. Noth- 
ing! The wind howled, and the snow fell thickly. 
The workmen as they passed by with their utensils 
on their shoulders, their heads bent beneath the 
thick falling snowflakes, brushed roughly against 
me. Nothing! I feared that I should be observed. 
I knew that I had done wrong in bribing a servant, 
but I did not regret it. Evil to him who is not able 
to overstep the social laws if need be! A quarter 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 207 


of an hour passed. Nothing! At last the window 
was partly opened. 

“Ts that you, Monsieur Bonnard ? ” 

“Ts that you, Jeanne? Tell me in a word how 
are you getting along?” 

“T am doing well, very well.” 

“But tell me more!” 

“T have been put into the kitchen, and they make 
me sweep the rooms.” 

“Into the kitchen! And you do the sweeping! 
Goodness ! ” 

“Yes; because my guardian no longer pays for 
my schooling.” 

“Goodness! It seems to me your guardian is a 
scoundrel.” 

“ Ah, you know then —” 

“ What?” 

“Oh, do not make me say it. But I would rather 
die than be alone with him.” 

“Why have you not written to me?” 

“T have been watched.” 

At that moment my resolution was taken, and no 
power could have made me alter it. The thought 
came to me that I might not be acting according to 
law, but what did I care for that? Being deter- 
mined, I was prudent. I acted with remarkable 
calmness. 

« Jeanne,” I asked, “does the room in which you 
are connect with the court?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you open the street door yourself ?” 

“Yes; unless some one is in the lodge.” 


208 THE CRIME OF 


“Go and try, and be sure not to let any one see 
you.” 

I waited, watching both door and window. At 
the end of five or six seconds Jeanne reappeared 
behind the grating. 

“The donne is in the lodge,” said she. 

“Good,” said I. “ Have you a pen and ink?” 

‘eNO 

«A pencil, then?” . 

= Vies,” 

*¢ Hand it to.me.” 

I took from my pocket an old newspaper ; and be- 
tween the gusts of wind, which almost blew out the 
street-lights, and under the falling snow which blinded 
me, I put a paper band about the newspaper, and 
addressed it as well as I could to Mademoiselle 
Préfére. 

While I was writing, I said to Jeanne, — 

«« When the postman comes along, he puts the let- 
ters and papers in the box, does he not, rings the 
bell, and goes on? The doze opens the box, and 
immediately carries the mail to Mademoiselle Pré- 
fére, does she not? That is what takes place, is it 
not, every time the mail comes ? ” 

Jeanne thought it was. 

“ Well, we shall see. Jeanne, keep watch, and as 
soon as the donne has left the lodge, pull the rope 
and come out.” 

So saying, I slipped the paper into the box, gave 
the bell a vigorous pull, and hid in the shelter of an 
adjoining doorway. 

I had been there a few moments, when the small 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 209 


door moved, and opened part way; then a young 
girl thrust her head out. I took held of her, and 
drew her towards me. 

“Come, Jeanne, come.” 

She looked at me with uncertainty. She certainly 
thought I had gone mad. On the contrary, I was to 
the last degree rational. 

«“ Come, come, my child.” 

“ Where ?” 

“To Madame de Gabry’s.” 

Then she took my arm. We ran for some dis- 
tance as if we were thieves. But running is not an 
- exercise suited for a man of my size; and half-suf- 
focated, I paused, and leaned on something which 
proved to be the stove of a chestnut-dealer, at the 
corner of a wine-shop where several cab-drivers 
were drinking. One of them asked if we did not 
want a carriage. Of course we did! The man of 
the whip set his glass down on the bar, mounted the 
box, and urged his horse forward. We were saved! 

“Whew!” I cried, mopping my brow; for in 
spite of the cold, I was all of a perspiration. 

Strange as it may seem, Jeanne apparently real- 
ized the enormity of what we had done more than I 
did. She was very serious and visibly nervous. 

“In the kitchen!” I cried indignantly. 

She nodded her head, as if to say, “ What does 
it matter whether I am there or anywhere else!” 

And in the light of the lamps I noticed with sor- 
row that her cheeks were thin, and her features 
drawn. I missed the vivacity, the spontaneity, the 
quick change of expression, which had been her 


210 THE CRIME OF 


great charm for me. Her eyes were dull, her ges- 
tures lifeless, her whole bearing dejected. I took 
her hand. It was calloused, rough, and clammy. 
The poor child must have suffered indeed. I 
questioned her. She calmly told me that one day 
Mademoiselle Préfére had summoned her, and for 
some unfathomable reason had called her a mon- 
ster and a little viper. 

“ She said, moreover, ‘You shall not see Mon- 
sieur Bonnard again. He has been giving you bad 
advice, and has treated me shamefully.’ I said to 
her, ‘ That, mademoiselle, I will never believe.’ 
Mademoiselle gave me a box on the ear, and sent 
me back to the schoolroom. The announcement 
that I was not to see you any more was like night 
falling about me. You know how blue and sad you 
sometimes feel at evening, when the darkness settles 
down upon you. Well! imagine that feeling extend- 
ing into weeks and months. Do you remember my 
little Saint-George ? Until then I had worked at it 
to the best of my ability for the mere fun of the 
thing; but after I had given up all hope of ever 
seeing you again, I went to work at my wax figure 
in a very different way. I no longer used the ends 
of matches to model with, as before, but hairpins. I 
even used invisible hairpins. But perhaps you do not 
know what these are. I worked with more delicacy 
than you can imagine. I put a dragonon the Saint- 
George’s helmet, and spent hour after hour in mod- 
elling a head, eyes, and a tail forhim. Especially the 
eyes. I never stopped till I had given him red eyes, 
white eyelids, eyelashes — everything. I am foolish. 





Le 
~ 


%, 





my arm 


took 


Then she 





SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 211 


I had an idea that when my little Saint-George was 
finished I should die. I worked at it during vaca- 
tions, and Mademoiselle Préfére let me alone. One 
day I heard that you were in the parlor with made- 
moiselle. I was on the watch for you; we said ‘du 
revoir’ to each other, and I was somewhat consoled. 
But one Thursday, a short time after that, my guard- 
ian wanted me to go out with him. I refused to go 
to his house. But do not ask me why, monsieur. 
He replied very gently that I was a whimsical little 
thing, and left me in peace. But the following day 
Mademoiselle Préfére came to me with such an evil 
‘look on her face that I was frightened. She held a 
letter in her hand. ‘ Mademoiselle,’ said she, ‘your 
guardian tells me that he has spent all the money 
that belongs to you; but you need have no fear, I 
will not desert you. But you will admit that it is 
right for you to earn your own living.’ 

“Then she set me to work cleaning her house ; 
and when I made any mistake, she shut me up for 

days ina garret. That is what has occurred since 
we last met, monsieur. Even if I could have writ- 
ten to you, I am not sure that I should have done so, 
because I did not think it possible for you to take 
me out of the school; and as Maitre Mouche did 
not come to see me again, there was no haste about 
anything. I could wait in the garret and in the 
kitchen.” 

“ Jeanne,” I cried, “if we have to flee to Oceanica, 
this abominable Préfére shall never again take you. 
I swear it. And why should we not go to Oceanica? 
The climate is mild, and I read in a newspaper the 


212 THE CRIME OF 


other day that there were pianos there. Meanwhile, 
we will go to Madame de Gabry, who, fortunately, 
came back to Paris three or four days ago. We are 
like two children, and we are in great need of aid.” 

While I spoke, Jeanne’s face grew pale and life- 
less. A shadow fell before her eyes, a movement 
of pain contracted her half-open lips, and her head 
sank down on her shoulder. She had fainted. 

I raised her in my arms, and carried her up Ma- 
dame de Gabry’s steps as though she were a child, 
asleep. When she regained consciousness, I my- 
self, overcome with fatigue and emotion, was on the 
point of giving way. 

“Ah, so it is you!” said she; “I am so glad!” 
In this state, we rang at the door of our friend’s 
home. 

The same day. 

It was eight o’clock. Madame de Gabry, you may 
well believe, was greatly surprised when she saw us. 
But she welcomed the old man and the child with 
that kindness which was manifested in her sweet 
manner. It seems, if I may use the devotional lan- 
guage natural to her, it seems as if some celestial 
grace flows from her hands every time she opens 
them; and even the perfume she wafts as she passes, 
suggests the sweet, calm intoxication of charity and 
good works. 

Surprised she was, certainly ; but she did not ask 
a single question, and this reticence seemed to me 
most commendable. 

«“ Madame,” said I, “we have both of us come 
to you for protection. And first of all, we beg for 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 213 


something to eat, especially for Jeanne, for she 
fainted a moment ago in the cab from sheer ex- 
haustion. For myself, I could touch nothing at 
this late hour without suffering a night of agony. 
I trust that Monsieur de Gabry is well.” 

“ He is here,” she replied; and she called him. 

“Paul! come and see Monsieur Bonnard and 
Mademoiselle Alexandre.” 

He came. _I was glad to see his pleasant, honest 
face, and to grasp his firm, square hand. All four 
of us went into the dining-room; and while they set 
before Jeanne some cold meat, which she did not ° 


‘touch, I told our story. Paul de Gabry asked if he 


might smoke his pipe, then listened to me in silence. 
When I had finished, he scratched the short, thick 
beard which covered his cheeks, and uttered an em- 
phatic sacrebleu/ But seeing that Jeanne turned a 
pair of wide-opened, frightened eyes first on him 
and then on me, he added, — 

“ We will speak of this to-morrow morning. Come 
into my library, I want to show you an old book, 
and ask your opinion about it.” 

I followed him into his library where, against a 
dark background, carbines and hunting-knives glim- 
mered in the lamplight. Pulling me down ona leather 


__ sofa, he cried, — 


“ What have you done! Good God, what have 
you done! Carrying off a minor! abduction! kid- 
napping! You have got into a pretty mess! You 
are simply liable to five or ten years’ imprisonment.” 

“Mercy!” I cried; “ten years’ imprisonment for 
having saved an innocent girl!” 


214 THE CRIME OF 


“That is the law,” replied Monsieur de Gabry. 
“I am well acquainted with it, my dear Monsieur 
Bonnard, not because I have studied law, but be- 
cause, as mayor of Lusance, I had to read up in it 
in order to enlighten my subordinates. Mouche is 
a rascal, Préfére a vile wretch, and you a — I can 
find no word strong enough.” 

He opened his bookcase, which was filled with 
dog-collars, horsewhips, stirrups, spurs, cigar-boxes, 
and a few books of reference, and taking down a 
law-book, turned over its leaves. 

“* Crimes and Misdemeanors .. . Sequestration 
of Persons’ . . . thatisnot your case. ‘Abduction 
of Minors’... here we are. ‘Article 354. Who- 
soever, by fraud or by violence, shall have abducted 
or caused to be abducted any minors, or shall have 
enticed, conveyed, or removed them, or shall have 
caused them to be enticed, conveyed, or removed 
Jrom the places in which they were put by those 
to whose authority or direction they were consigned 
or intrusted, shall be liable to imprisonment. See 
PENAL CODE, 27 and 28. 

“sar, The term of imprisonment shall not be 
less than five years. 28. Sentence to imprisonment 
shall involve the loss of civil rights. That is very 
clear, is it not, Monsieur Bonnard?” 

“ Perfectly clear.” 

“Let us continue: ‘ Article 356. Lf the abductor 
be under the age of twenty-one years, he shall be pun- 
ished only.” ... We certainly cannot invoke that 
article. ‘Article 357. In case the abductor shall 
have married the girl whom he has abducted, he 


— +e > 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 215 


can be prosecuted only on the complaint of the per- 
sons who, according to the Civil Code, have the right 
to demand that the marriage be declared null and 
votd, nor can he be condemned until after the mar- 
riage shall have been declared null and void, 

“I do not know whether it is your idea to marry 
Mademoiselle Alexandre or not. You see that the 
law is kind, and that it offers you this loophole. 
But it is wrong of me to jest, for your position is 
serious. How could a man like you have imagined 
that any one in Paris, in the nineteenth century, could 
carry away a young girl with impunity? Weare not 
living in the Middle Ages; abduction is no longer 
allowed.” 

“Do not imagine,” said I, “that abduction was 
allowed under the ancient laws. In Baluze you will 
find a decree issued by King Childebert at Cologne, 
in 593 or 594, on this question. Besides, who does 
not know that the famous ordinance of Blois, in 
May 1579, formally enacted that death should be 
the penalty for those who were found guilty of ab- 
ducting a boy or a girl under twenty-five years of 
age, whether under promise of marriage or other- 
wise, without the full knowledge, will, or express 
consent of father, mother, or guardians? And the 
ordinance adds, ‘ And likewise all those shall suffer 
condign punishment who shall have been in any 
way implicated in said abduction, and who shall 
have given counsel, help, or aid in any manner 
whatsoever. Those are the exact, or almost the 
exact, terms of the ordinance. As to the article 
of the Napoleonic Code to which you have just re- 


216 THE CRIME OF 


ferred, and by which the abductor is exempt from 
punishment if he marries the girl he has carried off, 
it reminds me of the law of Bretagne, where abduc- 
tion, followed by marriage, was not punishable. 
But this custom, which gave rise to abuse, was 
suppressed in 1720. 

“I give you the date within ten years. My mem- 
ory is not very good now; and I can no longer 
recite by heart without even pausing for breath, 
as I once could, fifteen hundred verses of Girart de 
Roussillon. 

“In regard to the capitulary of Charlemagne, regu- 
lating the punishment for abduction, I need not 
speak, for no doubt you remember it. You may 
clearly see, then, my dear Monsieur de Gabry, that 
abduction was considered a crime deserving of the 
severest punishment under the three dynasties of 
ancient France. It is entirely wrong to suppose 
that the Middle Agés were a time of chaos. On 
the contrary, you must remember ” — 

Monsieur de Gabry interrupted me, — 

«“ You know the ordinance of Blois, Baluze, Childe- 
bert, and the Capitularies,” said he, “yet you are 
ignorant of the Napoleonic Code!” 

I told him that I had never read that Code, and 
he seemed surprised. 

“ Do you realize now,” said he, “the seriousness 
of the act you have committed ?” 

In truth I scarcely did realize it as yet. But little 
by little, as I listened to Monsieur Paul’s very sen- 
sible words, I began to see that I should be con- 
demned, not for my innocent intentions, but for the 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 217 


act itself, which is punishable. Then I lost hope, 
and began to lament. 

“What shall I do?” I cried. “What shall I do? 
Am I, then, hopelessly lost? and shall I drag down 
with me the poor girl whom I tried to save?” 

Monsieur de Gabry filled his pipe in silence, and 
lighted it so deliberately that for three or four min- 
utes his kind, broad face was as red as a black- 
smith’s in the fire of his forge. 

“You ask me what you shall do. Do nothing, 
my dear Monsieur Bonnard. For the love of Heaven 

_and for your own sake, do nothing at all. Your 
position is bad enough now. Do not become en- 


tangled any deeper for fear of fresh trouble. But | 
promise me to approve of all I am going to do.’ 


Early to-morrow morning I shall go to Monsieur 
Mouche; and if he is what we believe him to be, a 
downright scoundrel, I can easily find (even though 
the Devil himself should take his part) a way to 
make him perfectly harmless. For everything de- 
pends on him, It is too late this evening to carry 
Mademoiselle Jeanne back to the school, but my 
wife will take care of her. That frankly and plainly 
constitutes the misdemeanor of complicity, but in 
this way we shall avoid anything equivocal in the 
young girl’s position. And do you, my dear mon- 
sieur, return as fast as you can to the quay Malo- 
quais; and if any one comes in search of Jeanne there, 
you can easily prove that she is not in your house.” 

During this conversation of ours, Madame de 
Gabry was getting a sleeping-room in readiness for 
her young guest. 


218 THE CRIME OF 


When she bade me good-night, she held on her 
arm a pair of linen sheets perfumed with lavender. 

“ That is a sweet and wholesome smell,” said I. 

“Of course,” said Madame de Gabry; “we are 
peasants.” 

“Ah!” I exclaimed; “if only I too might be a 
peasant! If only some day I might breathe the 
woodland odors as you do at Lusance, beneath a 
vine-covered roof; and if this is too ambitious a wish 
for an old man whose life is nearly spent, I will 
wish, at least, that my shroud may be perfumed 
with lavender, as is this linen which you have on 
your arm!” 

It was decided that I should come to breakfast 
the next morning, but they absolutely forbade my 
appearing before noon. Jeanne kissed me good- 
night, and begged me not to let her go back to the 
boarding-school. We parted sad and anxious. 


I found Thérése at the head of my stairs, in such 
a condition of nervous anxiety as to make her furi- 
ous. She spoke of nothing less than locking me up 
in future. 

What a night I spent! I did not close my eyes 
for a single instant. Sometimes I laughed like a 
boy at the success of my adventure ; then, with inex- 
pressible agony, I saw myself dragged before the 
magistrates, and compelled to answer at the bar for 
the crime that I had so naturally committed. I was 
filled with terror, yet I felt neither remorse nor re- 
gret. The sun crept into my room, and fell caress- 
ingly across the foot of my bed. Then I prayed: — 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 219 


“OQ God, thou who didst make the sky and the \ 
dew, as it says in Tristan, judge me in thy equity, \ 
not according to my acts, but according to my in- | 
tentions, which were pure and upright. Then will I 
say, ‘Glory to thee in the highest, Peace on earth, 
Good will toward men. I leave in thy hands the 
young girl whom I stole away. Do what I was 
unable to do. Keep her from all her enemies, and 
may thy name be forever blessed!” _ 


pais =f 0 


When I returned to Madame de Gabry’s, I found 
‘ Jeanne transformed. 

Had she, like myself, at early dawn, called upon 
the name of Him who made the sky and the dew? 
She wore such a sweet and peaceful smile. 

Madame de Gabry called her back to finish her 
hair, for this kind friend had taken it upon herself 
to arrange her young visitor’s locks in a becoming 
manner. Having reached the house a little ahead 
of time, I had interrupted the pretty toilet, and as a 
punishment I was made to wait alone in the draw- 
ing-room. 

Monsieur de Gabry very soon joined me. He 
evidently came from out-of-doors, for his forehead 
still bore the mark of his hat. His open counte- 
nance expressed joyous animation. I felt that I 
had best not ask him any questions, and we all 
went in to breakfast. When the servants had with- 
drawn, Monsieur Paul, who had been keeping his 
story for dessert, said to us, — 

“ Well, I have been to Levallois.” 





220 THE CRIME OF 


“ Did you see Maitre Mouche?” asked Madame 
de Gabry eagerly. 

“No,” he replied, studying our faces, which 
showed the disappointment we felt. 

The good man enjoyed our anxiety for a reason- 
able time in silence; then he added, — 

“Maitre Mouche is no longer at Levallois. He 
has left France. Day after to-morrow it will be a 
week since he locked his door, and went off with all 
his clients’ money, a good round sum too. I found 
his office closed. A woman who lived near him 
told me the story, with many curses and impreca- 
tions. The notary took the 7.55 train, but he did 
not go alone. He eloped with the daughter of a 
Levallois barber, a young girl well known about the 
country for her beauty and her accomplishments. It 
is said that she could shave better than her father, 
But Mouche has eloped with her. The fact was 
confirmed by the chief of police. And really, could 
he have gone away more opportunely? Had he 
postponed his plans for a week, as the representative 
of society, he might have sent you, Monsieur Bon- 
nard, like a criminal, into the blackest of dungeons. 
But now we have nothing further to fear. To 
Maitre Mouche’s health!” he cried, pouring out a 
glass of white wine. 

I should like to live long that I might long re- 
member that morning. We four were assembled 
about the polished oaken table in the great white 
dining-room. Monsieur Paul’s delight was intense, 
and perhaps a trifle boisterous in its expression; and 
the good fellow drained his glass again and again. 





SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 221 


Madame de Gabry smiled at me with her gentle, 
pure, and noble smile, Such a woman should save 
her smiles as a reward for good deeds, that every 
one about her might do good. As a compensation 
for our troubles, Jeanne, who had recovered her 
sprightliness, kept up a storm of questions for a 
quarter of an hour, the answers to which would 
have included, at least a dissertation upon nature, 
man, the physical and the metaphysical, the macro- 
cosm and the microcosm, without mentioning the 
ineffable and the unknowable. She drew from her 
pocket her little Saint-George, which had suffered 
cruelly in our flight. It no longer had any arms or 
legs, but its golden helmet with the green dragon 
was still intact. Jeanne took a solemn vow to re- 
store it in honor of Madame de Gabry. 

I left these good friends, overwhelmed with fatigue 
and delight. 


On my return home, Thérése met me with the 
liveliest remonstrances. She was utterly incapable 
of understanding my new mode of living. To her 
way of thinking, monsieur had lost his mind. 

“Yes, Thérése, I am a crazy old man, I'll admit, 
and you are a crazy old woman. There is no doubt 
of it. May the good Lord bless us, Thérése, and 
give us fresh strength, for we have new duties. But 
let me lie down on this sofa, for I cannot stand up 
any longer.” 

January 13, 186-. 

“ Good-morning, monsieur,” said Jeanne, opening 

our door for me, while Thérése, who was not so 


p 


222 THE CRIME OF 


quick as the young girl, stood grumbling in the 
shadow of the corridor. 

“ Mademoiselle, I beg that you will call me sol- 
emnly by my proper title. Say, ‘good-morning, 
guardian.’ ” 

“It’s all settled, then? Oh, good!” cried the 
girl, clapping her hands. 

“Yes; it has been settled, mademoiselle, in the 
court-room, in the presence of the justice of the 
peace, and you are henceforth subject to my author- 
ity. You laugh, do you, my ward? I see it in 
your eyes. You have some silly idea in your head. 
Another whim?” 

“Oh, no, monsieur — my guardian; I was looking 
at your white locks. They fall from beneath the 
brim of your hat like honeysuckle over a balcony ; 
your hair is very beautiful, and I like it im- 
mensely !” 

“Sit down, my ward; and if you can possibly help 
it, stop saying such silly nonsense. I have séme- 
thing serious to tell you. Listen! You are not 
absolutely bent, I suppose, upon returning to Ma- 
demoiselle Préfére’s? . . . No? What should you 
say if I were to keep you here in order to finish 
your education, until— but how do I know? for 
always, as the expression is?” 

“ Oh, monsieur !”’ exclaimed the girl, flushing with 
delight. 

I. continued, — 

“ There is a little back room that my housekeeper 
has cleaned and put in order for you. You will 
take the place of the old books just as day succeeds 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 223 


night. Go with Thérése, and see if the room is 
habitable. Madame de Gabry understands that you 
will sleep there to-night.” 

She was already darting off, but I called her 
back. 
“ Jeanne, listen to me further. So far you have 
got on very well with my housekeeper, who, like all 
old women, is naturally somewhat cross. Treat her 
with consideration. I have thought it my own duty 
to humor her, and to put up with her irritability. I 
beg of you, Jeanne, respect her. And in speaking 


in this way, I do not forget that she is my servant ~ 
and yours, and she will not forget it either. But — 


you should respect her great age and her great 
heart. She is a humble creature who has grown old 
in usefulness, and she has become confirmed in this 
habit. Bear with the sternness of this upright soul. 
If you command her wisely, she will obey. Go, 
my dear girl, arrange your room in whatever way 
may best suit your work and your comfort.” 

Having started Jeanne with this Viaticum on her 
career as a housekeeper, I turned to a review, which, 
although edited by young men, is excellent. The 
tone of it is unpolished, but the spirit is full of 
earnestness. The article I read surpasses, so far 
as the strength and accuracy are concerned, all that 
was done in my early days. The author of the 
article, Monsieur Paul Méyer, notes every mistake 
with clear, incisive criticism. 

In those days we were not so mercilessly impartial. 
Our indulgence was immense. It sometimes went 
so far as to heap equal praise on the scholar and on 


/. 


224 TIMES RN CDI EIS ON OF oh 


the ignoramus. Yet one should be able to con- 
demn; nay, it is an imperative duty. I remember 
little Raymond (for that was his name). He did 
not know anything, and his mind was incapable 
of acquiring knowledge, but he was devoted to his 
mother. We were careful not to denounce the ig- 
norance of such a good son; and little Raymond, 
thanks to our indulgence, made his way to the very 
top. He had lost his mother, but every honor was 
lavished on him, He was all powerful, to the great 
detriment of his colleagues and science. But here 
comes my young friend of the Luxembourg. 

“ Good-afternoon, Gélis. You look happy to-day. 
My dear boy, what has happened ?”’ 

It seems that he has sustained his thesis very 
well, and that he has taken a high rank. He tells 
me this, adding that my works, which were dis- 
cussed incidentally in the course of the meeting, 
were unreservedly praised by the professors of the 
school. 

“That is good,” I replied; “and I am glad, Gélis, 
to see my old reputation associated with your young 
laurels. I was greatly interested, as you know, in 
your thesis ; but domestic affairs made me forget that 
you were to sustain it to-day.” 

Here Mademoiselle Jeanne came in just in time 
to enlighten him in regard to these domestic affairs. 
The little madcap rushed into the City of Books like 
a fresh breeze, exclaiming that her room was a per- 
fect dream. She blushed deeply on seeing Mon- 
sieur Gélis, but no one can escape his fate. 

Monsieur Gélis asked her how she was, in the 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 225 


tone of a youth who takes advantage of a previous 
meeting, arid who poses as an old acquaintance. 
Oh! do not fear! she had not forgotten him. It 
was apparent enough, when under my very nose they 
took up their conversation of a year ago, on the 
Venetian d/ond. They carried it on in a lively vein. 
I asked myself what was I doing there, forsooth! 
In order to make myself heard, there was nothing 
for me to do but to cough. As to talking, they 
scarcely gave me a chance to utter a word. Gélis 
spoke with enthusiasm, not only of the Venetian 
colorists, but also of everything else relating to 
man and nature. And Jeanne answered him, — 


“ Yes, monsieur, you are right. . . . That is ex- 
actly what I thought, monsieur. . . . Monsieur, you 
express very clearly what I feel. . . . I will think 


over what you have just said, monsieur.” 

When I speak, mademoiselle does not reply in 
that tone. What I say she tastes with the tip of 
her tongue, and a good half of it she will not touch 
at all. But Monsieur Gélis is authority on all sub- 
jects. To all his chattering I hear her replies of, 
“Oh, yes! Oh, certainly!” 

And Jeanne’s eyes! I never saw them so large 
and so steady; but her glance, as always, was frank, 
innocent, and brave. Gélis pleased her. She ad- 
mired Gélis, and her eyes betrayed her feelings. 
They might have betrayed it to the whole world. 
That is all very fine, Maitre Bonnard; but while you 
are watching your ward, you are forgetting that you 
are her guardian. You have been her guardian since 
this morning, and this new function is already im- 


226 THE CRIME OF 


posing delicate duties upon you. You should devise 
some tactful way of keeping this young man at a 
distance. Bonnard, you should — but do I know 
what I ought to do? . .*. 

I have taken up a book at random from the near- 
est shelf. I open it, and enter with feelings of re- 
spect into the midst of a drama of Sophocles. The 
older I grow, the more I love the two great civiliza- 
tions of antiquity, and I now keep the poets of Greece 
and of Italy within arm’s reach in the City of Books. 

Monsieur and mademoiselle, seeing that I am not 
bothering myself about them any more, condescend 
to pay me some little attention. I really believe 
that Mademoiselle Jeanne is asking me what I am 
reading. No, indeed, I will not tell her. I am read- 
ing of the sweet and glorious chorus that unrolls its 
beautiful melopeeia in the midst of a powerful scene, 
—the chorus of the old men of Thebes. "Epws 


aViKATE axav — 


O Invincible Love, thou who descendest upon the wealthy, 

Thou that makest thy couch on the soft cheeks of the maiden, 

Thou who passest over the seas, and enterest the shepherd’s 
hut, 

None either of the immortals can escape thee, 

Or of men whose life is but a span of years. 

And whosoever possesses thee is subject to madness. 


And when I had read that delicious chant once 
more, the figure of Antigone appeared before me, 
in all her unalterable purity. What images, ye gods 
and goddesses who hovered in the azure heavens ! 
The blind old man, the beggar-king who has wan- 
dered for years, led by Antigone, at last has received 


—-- 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 227 


holy burial. His daughter, as beautiful as the most 
beautiful pictures that the human mind has ever 
conceived, resists the tyrant, and piously buries her 
brother. She loves the tyrant’s son, and this son 
loves her. And as she goes to execution, the vic- 
tim of her filial love, the old men sing, — 


O Invincible Love, thou who descendest upon the wealthy, 
Thou who makest thy couch on the soft cheeks of the 
maiden — 


“ Mademoiselle Jeanne, do you really want to know 
what I am reading? I am reading, mademoiselle, 
I am reading how Antigone, having buried the blind 
old man, embroidered a beautiful tapestry, on which 
were woven joyous figures.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Gélis, laughing, “that is not in — 
the text.” 

“ That is a scholium,” I replied. 

“It is unpublished,” said he, rising. 

I am not selfish. I am careful. I have to bring 
up this young girl. She is too young; I cannot let 
her be married yet. No! I am not selfish; but I 
must keep her a few years with me, with me alone. 
Can she not wait until after I am dead? Be not 
anxious, Antigone, old CEdipus will in due time find 
the holy place for his burial. 

Meanwhile Antigone is helping our housekeeper 
to clean the carrots. She says that this suits her, 
as it is like sculpture. 


Who would recognize the City of Books? tua f° 
are flowers now on every table. Jeanne is right, 


228 THE CRIME OF 


These roses are very beautiful in this vase of blue 
faience. Every day she goes to market with Thé- 
rése under pretext of helping the old servant buy 
the provisions, but she brings back nothing but 
flowers. Flowers are indeed beautiful creatures. 
Some day I must carry out my idea, and study 
them in their own domain among the fields, in the 
most systematic way I can. 

And what is there for me to do here? Why con- 
tinue to spoil my eyes with old parchments which no 
longer tell me anything worth while? I used to 
decipher these old texts with the most disinterested 
enthusiasm. What did I hope to find in them then? 
The date of the endowment of some pious institu- 
tion, the name of some monk, illuminator, or copyist, 
the price of a loaf, of an axe, of a field, an adminis- 
trative or judicial enactment, that and something 
more, something mysterious, vague, sublime, that 
roused my enthusiasm. But for sixty years I have 
sought, and I have not found that something. More 
worthy men than I, the masters, the truly great, the 
Fauriels, the Thierrys, who made so many discov- 
eries, have died without finding this something any 
more than I have found it. It has no body, and has 
no name, and yet without it no intellectual work 
could be undertaken on this earth. Now that I am 
seeking only for what I am sure I can find, I no 
longer find anything at all; and it is probable that 
I shall never finish the history of the abbots of 
Saint-Germain-des-Prés. 

“ My guardian, guess what I have in my hand-. 
kerchief.” , 





SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 229 


* To all appearances, Jeanne, it is flowers.” 

“Oh, no! it is not flowers.. Look!” 

I look, and see a little gray head thrusting itself 
out of the handkerchief. 

It belongs to a little gray cat. The handkerchief 
opens. The animal springs to the carpet, shakes 
itself, raises first one ear, then the other, and cau- 
tiously investigates the place and the people. 

While this is going on, Thérése makes her ap- 
pearance, out of breath, her basket on her arm. 
The kitten, evidently not over and above satisfied 
with the result of his investigation, walks slowly 
away from her, without, however, either touching 
my legs or approaching Jeanne, though she calls 
him pet names with wonderful volubility. Thérése, 
one of whose faults is that she never dissimulates, 
vehemently reproaches mademoiselle for bringing a 
strange cat into the house. Jeanne, in order to jus- 
tify herself, tells the story. As she was passing 
with Thérése in front of a drug-store, she saw a 
clerk kick a kitten out into the street. The kitten, 
surprised and distressed, was in doubt whether to 
remain in the street, in spite of the passers-by who 
jostled against him and frightened him, or whether , 
to return to the shop at the risk of being kicked out 
a second time. Jeanne saw that he was in a trying 
position, and understood his hesitation. He acted 
as if he were stupid, but she thought his appearance 
of stupidity came from indecision. So she took 
him up in her arms; and as he had been happy 

neither in-doors or out, he allowed her to hold him 
in mid air. Then, while she still kept soothing him 


= 


230 THE CRIME OF 


by her caresses, she said boldly to the druggist’s 
clerk, — 

“ There is no need of kicking this poor little crea- 
ture, even if you do not like him. You must give 
him to me.” 

“ Take him,” réplied the clerk. : 

“ That’s the whole story!” exclaimed Jeanne in 
conclusion; and she began again in a soft voice to 
make all sorts of sweet promises to pussy. 

“He is very thin,” said I, examining the pitiful- 
looking little animal ; “ moreover, he is very homely.” 

Jeanne thinks he is not homely, but she acknowl- 
edges that he acts stupider than ever. But now it 
is not indecision, it is surprise, which, in her opinion, 
gives such a disagreeable aspect to his physiognomy. 
She wants us to put ourselves in his place. We try 
to do so, and acknowledge that it must be out of 
the question for him to understand what has hap- 
pened to him. We burst out laughing at the poor 
beast, who gazes about in a serio-comic fashion. 
Jeanne wants to take him in her arms; but he hides 
underneath the table, and will not come out even at 
sight of a saucerful of milk. 

We turn our backs —the saucer is empty! 

“Jeanne,” I say, “your protégé is a sad-looking 
creature. He is naturally suspicious. I trust that 
he will not do anything in the City of Books that 
will necessitate our sending him back to his drug- 
store. In the meantime we must give him a name. 
I would suggest Don Gris de Gouttiére, but perhaps 
that is a trifle long. Pilule, Drogue, or Ricin1 

1 Pill, Drug, or Castor-Oil. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 231 


would be shorter, and would also have the advan- 
tage of recalling to mind his early conditions. 
What do you say?” 

“ Pilule would be good,” answered Jeanne; “but 
it would not be kind to give him a name which 
would constantly remind him of the troubles from 
which we have rescued him. That would be mak- 
ing him pay dearly for our hospitality. Let us be 
more generous, and give him a pretty name, in the 
hope that he will deserve it. See how he watches 
us! He sees that we are talking about him. He is 
not half so stupid now that he is not so unhappy. 
I am not joking. Unhappiness makes one stupid; 
I know it very well.” 

“ Well, Jeanne, if you would like, we will call 
your protégé Hannibal. The fitness of this name 
does not strike you at first. But the Angora who 
preceded him in the City of Books, and to whom I 
was in the habit of confiding my secrets, for he was 
a wise and discreet creature, was named Hamilcar. 
It is natural that the one name should beget the 
other, and that Hannibal should succeed Hamilcar.” 
We all agreed on this point. 

« Hannibal!” cried Jeanne, “come here.” Han- 
nibal, frightened by the strange sound of his new 
name, ran and crouched down under a bookcase in 
a space so small that a rat could not have squeezed 
himself into it. 

It was a fine way of carrying a mighty name. 

That day I felt in a humor for writing, and I had 
already dipped my pen into the ink when I heard 


the bell. If ever any idle person should read these 


232 THE CRIME OF 


pages, scrawled by an old man devoid of imagina- 


tion, he would smile at the sound of the bell which 
every moment rings out in the course of my story 
without ever introducing a new personage or an un- 
expected scene. 

On the stage it is different. Monsieur Scribe 
never lets a door open without some good reason, 
without furnishing some new enjoyment for the 
ladies, old and young. That is art. I should rather 
be hanged than have to write a play. Not because 
I scorn life, but because I should not be able to 
invent anything amusing. Invent! For that one 
must have inspiration. The gift would be fatal in 


my case! Imagine if, in my history of the Abbey | 


of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, I should invent some 
petty monk. What would our young scholars say? 
What a disgrace to the School! As for the Insti- 
tute, it would say nothing, probably it would not 


even think about it. Although my colleagues still” 


do a little writing, they no longer read. They are 
of the opinion of Parny, who said, — 


“Une paisible indifférence 
Est la plus sage des virtus,” } 


To be the least possible in order to be the great-_ 


est possible is what the Buddhists are striving for 
without knowing it. If there is wiser wisdom, I 
will go and announce it in Rome. All this because 
Monsieur Gélis rings the door-bell ! 

This young man has undergone a great change 


1 * A calm indifference 
Is the wisest of virtues.” 


—_- —-— 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 233 


in his manner toward Jeanne. He is now as se- 
rious as he was once frivolous, as silent as he was 
talkative. Jeanne follows his example. We have 
reached the phase of suppressed passion. For, old 
as I am, I am not deceived init. These two young 
people are deeply and lastingly in love with each 
other. Jeanne avoids him now. When he comes 
into the library, she hides in her room. But how 
well she finds him again when she is alone! Then, 
she speaks to him every evening in the music which 
she plays on the piano with a quick, vibrating touch, 
which is the new expression of her new heart. 

Well, why should I not say it? Why not acknowl- 
edge my weakness? Would my selfishness become 
any the less blameworthy if I were to hide it from 
myself? I willadmitit,then. Yes, I expected some- 
thing else — yes, I hoped to keep her for myself 
alone, as my child, my daughter, not for always, not 


- even for long, but for a few years more. Iam 


so old! Could she not have waited? And who 
knows? with the aid of the gout, perhaps I should 
not have abused her patience for long. That was 
my desire, my hope; but I did not take her into my 
calculations. I did not take this silly young man 
into my calculations. And the mistake is none the 
less hard for me because I miscalculated. 

Yet it seems to me, Sylvestre Bonnard, my friend, 
that you are blaming yoursel£ quite too easily. If 
you wanted to keep this young girl a few years 
longer, it was for her interest as well as for your 


own. She has much to learn, and you are not a 


master to be scorned. When that notary Mouche, 


234 THE CRIME OF 


who was discovered in his rascalities at such an 
opportune moment, honored you by a call, you set 
forth your system of education with all the enthusi- 
asm of an adept. You have been zealously striving 
to apply this system; but Jeanne is an ungrateful 
girl, and Gélis a very seductive youth. 

But still, if I do not show him the door, an act 
which would be detestably ill-mannered and unkind, 
I must receive him. He has been waiting long 
enough in my little drawing-room opposite the Sé- 
vres jars which were graciously presented to me by 
King Louis-Philippe. Zhe Motssonneurs and the 
Pécheurs by Leopold Robert are painted on these 
porcelain jars, and Gélis declares that they are fright- 
ful; and Jeanne, whom he has bewitched, claps her 
hands in delight. 

“My dear boy, pardon me for not seeing you at 
once, I was finishing some work.” I told the truth. 
Meditation is work, but that is not what Gélis un- 
derstands by it. 

He supposes that I refer to archeology; and 
being set at ease as to the health of Mademoiselle 
Jeanne (I said she was “very well,” in a dry tone 
which showed my moral authority as her guardian), 
we two begin learnedly to discuss historical sub- 
jects. We begin with generalities. Generalties are 
a great help. I strive to inculcate into Gélis a lit- 
tle respect for the generation of historians to which 
I belong. I say to him, — 

« History, which used to be an art, and which 
afforded room for all flights of the imagination, has 
of late years become a science, in which we must 
work in accordance with a rigorous system.” 


SS ———- ~~ 


ee 








SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 235 


Gélis begs leave to differ with me. He says that 
he does not think that history is a science, or that it 
ever will become a science. 

“In the first place,” he says, “what is history? 
The written representation of past events. But what 
is an event? Is it any trifling occurrence? Cer- 
tainly not. You say, it is an important occurrence. 
But how can the historian judge whether the occur- 
rence is important or not? He judges it arbitrarily, 
according to his taste, his fancy, his idea. In short, 
he judges it as an artist! For facts (from their very 
nature) are not divided into historical facts and non- 


"historical facts. A fact is something extremely com- | 


plex. Does the historian represent these facts in 
their complexity? No; thatis impossible. He will 
represent them stripped of the greater part of the 


characteristics which made them what they were. 


That is, he represents them mangled, mutilated, dif- 
ferent from their original nature. As to the inter- 
relation of the facts we need not speak. If a 
so-called historical fact is brought out (and this is 
possible) by one or more facts which are non-histor- 
ical, and on this account unknown, how can the 
historian note the relation of these facts to one an- 
other? And in all that I say, Monsieur Bonnard, I 
am supposing that the historian has under his eyes 
positive proofs, while in reality he trusts this or that 
witness only on sentimental reason. History is not 
a science, it is an art; and one succeeds in it only by 
imagination. 

At this point, Monsieur Gélis reminds me of a cer- 
tain young lunatic, whom I heard one day. uttering 


p. 


236 THE CRIME OF 


wild sophistries in the garden of the Luxembourg, 
beneath the statue of Marguerite of Navarre. But 
by a turn of the conversation, we come face to face 
with Walter Scott, whom my scornful young friend 
considers rococo, troubadourish, and dessus de pen- 
dule. These were his very expressions. — 

“ But,” said I, warming up in defence of the mag- 
nificent creator of Lucy and of the air Maid of 
Perth, “the whole Past lives in his beautiful novels. 
It is history; it is epic poetry!” 

“It is nonsense!” replied Gélis. 

And would you believe it? This rattle-brained 
youth declares that no matter how learned one may 
be, one cannot know exactly how men lived five or 
ten centuries ago, since it is only with great difficulty 
that one imagines them as they were ten or fifteen 
years ago. In his opinion, the historical poem, the 
historical novel, the historical painting, are all abom- 
inably false forms of art. 

“In all the arts,” he adds, “the artist can only 
paint his own soul. His work, however it may be 
clad, is his contemporary, because his spirit is in it. 
What do we admire in the ‘ Divine Comedy,’ if not 
the great soul of Dante? And what do the marbles 
of Michael Angelo show us above the ordinary, un- 
less it be Michael Angelo himself? If a man is an 
artist, he must give his own life to his creations, or 
else he makes mere puppets, and dresses dolls!” 

What paradoxes and what lack of reverence! But 


1 Dessus de pendule is the ornament which some years ago used to be 
the accompaniment of French clocks; hence, anything inartistic and 
conventional; here, ‘‘ behind the times "’ might express the idea. 








SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 237 


boldness in a young man does not displease me. 
Gélis rises, and sits down again. I know very well 
what is on his mind, and what he is waiting for. 
He speaks to me of the fifteen hundred francs he 
makes above and beyond the small yearly income 
of two thousand francs which he has inherited. I 
am not deceived by these confidences. I know very 
well that he tells me of his affairs so that I may 
know that he is well established, steady, settled, 
with a yearly income, fitted to marry, g. ¢. @., as the 
geometricians say. 

He has risen and sat down again twenty times. 
' He rises for the twenty-first time, and not having 
seen Jeanne, he goes out, disappointed. 

As soon as he has gone, Jeanne comes into the 
City of Books under the pretext of looking for Han- 
nibal. She, too, is disappointed, and melancholy is 
the tone in which she calls her protégé to come and 
get his milk. See her sad face. 

Bonnard! Tyrant, behold your handiwork! You 
have kept them apart; but the look on their faces 
is the same, and you see from this, that in spite 
of you they are united in thought. Cassandra, be 
happy! Bartholo, rejoice! This is what it is to be 
a guardian? Do you see her as she kneels on the 
carpet, holding Hannibal’s head between her hands. 

Yes! caress the stupid little beast! Pity him! 
Moan over him! We know very well, you sweet 
little pretender, the object of your sighs, the cause 
of your complaints. Nevertheless, they make a 
pretty picture, and I gaze at it for some time. 
Then, glancing at my book-shelves, I say, — 


238 THE CRIME OF 


“Jeanne, all these books weary me. Let us sell 
them.” 

September 20. 

It is all over. They are engaged. Gélis, who, 
like Jeanne, has neither father nor mother, made his 
proposal through the medium of one of his profes- 
sors, a colleague of mine, highly esteemed for his 
character and his learning. But what a messenger 
of love, good heavens! A bear—nota bear from 
the Pyrenees, but a literary bear, and the latter 
is much more ferocious than the former. 

“ Right or wrong (wrong in my opinion), Gélis 
cares nothing about the dowry. He will take your 
ward just as she is. Say yes, and the affair is sct- 
tled. And I beg you to make haste; for I want to 
show you two or three rather curious tokens from 
Lorraine, and which are new to you, I am sure.” 

This is literally what he said to me. I told him 
I would ask Jeanne, and I took no small pleasure in 
adding that my ward had a dowry! Her dowry! 
There it is! It is my library. Henry and Jeanne 
are a thousand miles from suspecting it, and it is 
a fact that I am generally supposed to be richer than 
I am. I look like an old miser. My appearance 
belies me certainly, but it has brought me much 
consideration. There’s no kind of person whom the 
world respects so much as a rich skinflint! I have 
consulted Jeanne, but did I need to listen to her 
words to know her answer? It is done now! They 
are engaged ! 

It is not in keeping either with my face or 
with my character to play the spy upon these 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 239 


young people in order to note their words and 
gestures. 

Voli me tangere is the motto of love affairs. I 
know my duty. It is to respect the secret of this 
innocent heart which was intrusted to my guardian- 
ship. Let them love each other! the dear children! 
Not a word of their love-making, not a word of their 
frank avowals, shall be put down in this diary by 
the old guardian whose authority was so gentle and 
so brief! 

At any rate, I do not fold my arms; for if they 
have their affairs, Ihave mine. I am making out my 
own catalogue of my library, with a view toward 
selling it by auction. It is a task which both pains 
and delights me. I linger over it perhaps some- 
what longer than I ought to do; and I turn over the 
leaves in the volumes that are so familiar to my 
thought, to my hand, to my eyes, spending more 
time than is necessary or best for me. Lut itis a 
farewell to them, and it has ever been man’s nature 
to prolong his leave-takings. 

This thick volume which has done me such good 
service for thirty years, can I say good-by to it 
without showing to it the respect that a good old 
servant deserves! And this one, that many a time 
has comforted me by its wholesome doctrine, must I 
not salute it for the last time as I would a master? 
But whenever I come across a book that has led 
me into error, that has caused me trouble by its in- 
correct dates, its omissions, its falsehoods, and other 
such faults, —the torment of the antiquarian, — 
“Go!” I say in cruel joy, “go! impostor, traitor, false 

‘a \ 


\ 
\ 


240 THE CRIME OF 


witness! flee far from me, vade retro, and mayest 
thou, ridiculously bedizened with gold as thou art, 
and thanks to thy stolen reputation and thy fine 
morocco covers, find a place behind the glass doors 
in the library of some bibliomaniac stockbroker, 
whom thou canst not deceive as thou hast me, since 
he will never read thee.” 

I laid aside the books that had been given me as 
souvenirs, with the design of keeping them always. 
As I placed among them the manuscript of “ The 
Golden Legend,” I could not refrain from kissing it, 
in memory of Madame Trépof, who, in spite of her 
high position and her wealth, remained grateful, and 
who, in order to show her gratitude, became my ben- 
efactress. Thus I began a system of keeping back. 


y S \ Then first I made the acquaintance of crime: 


The temptations kept coming to me during the 
night, and by dawn they were irresistible. So, while 
the house still slept, I rose and crept stealthily from 
my room. Shades of darkness, Phantoms of night, 
if, lingering in my house after the crowing of the 
cock, you saw me Stealing on tiptoe about the City 
of Books, you certainly did not cry out, as did Ma- 
dame Trépof at Naples, ‘That old man has a good 
back!” 

I would enter the library. MHannibal, his tail in 
the air, would come rubbing against my legs, purr- 
ing. I would seize a volume from the shelf, some 
old Gothic manuscript, or a great poet of the Re- 
naissance, the jewel, the treasure, of which I had 
dreamed the livelong night. I would take it up and 
slip it as far as I could into the closet, where I hid 


i i 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 24 


the books I was keeping back, and which was al- 
ready full enough to burst. It is horrible to tell: I 
was steoling_Icanne’s dowry. And when the crime 
had been committed, I would set to work again, cat- 
aloguing industriously, until Jeanne came to consult 
me about some detail of her dress or trousseau. I 
never quite understood what it was, because I did 
not know the modern vocabulary of dress-making 
and dry goods. Ah! if a fourteenth-century bride 
had come by chance to consult me about her ap- 
parel, I should have understood her. But Jeanne 
belongs to another age than mine, and I have to 
send her to Madame de Gabry, who is like a mother 
to her at this time. 

Night comes! The night has come! Leaning out 
of the window, we watch the great dark expanse 
covered with dots of light. Jeanne, as she bends 
over the window-bar, holds her forehead against her 
hands, and seems sad. I watch her, and say to my- 
self, “ Every change, even the happiest, has its sad- 
ness; for what we leave is a part of ourselves. We 

. must die in one life, in order to enter another.” 
’ As if in reply to my thought, the young girl says 
to me, — 

“My guardian, I am very happy; and yet I feel 
like crying!” 

LAST PAGE. 


Browves, August 21, 1869. 
Page eighty-seven. Only a few lines more, and 
my book on the insects and flowers will be finished. 
Page eighty-seven, and the last... . “As we have 


\ 
242 THE CRIME OF 


Just seen, the visits of insects are of the greatest 
importance to plants. Their function, indeed, is 
to carry the pollen of the stamens to the pistil, It 
seems that the flower prepares and decks herself, 
in the expectation of this nuptial visit. JI think I 
have shown that the nectary of the flower distils a 
sweet liguid, which attracts the insect, and compels 
zt unconsctously to carry out the fertilization, either 
direcg or crossed. The latter mode ts the more com- 
mon. I have said that the flowers are colored and 
scented in such a manner as to attract insects, and 
so constructed as to their inner formation as to offer 
these visitors a passage by which they may reach 
the corolla, and so leave upon the stigma the pol- 
len with which they are covered. Sprengel, my 
respected teacher, satd, apropos of the down which 
lines the corolla of the wood geranium,‘ The wise 
Author of nature did not create one useless hatr.’, 
I say in my turn, ‘If the lily of the fields ts more 
richly clothed, as the Scriptures say, than King 
Solomon, its purple cloak ts a wedding-cloak, and 
this rich covering ts necessary for the perpetuation 
of us ife.”? 

Brolles!) My house is the last on the road between 


1 Monsieur Svlvestre Bonnard was unaware that some very noted 
naturalists were making, at the same time as himself, researches in re- 
gard to the relation between insects and plants. He was unacquainted 
with the works of Monsieur Darwin, Dr. Hermann Miiller, as well as 
with the observations of Sir John Lubbock. It is worthy of note that 
Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard’s conclusions are very similar to those of 
the three scientists above mentioned. It is less important, but perhaps 
rather interesting, to remark that Sir John Lubbock is, like Monsieur 
Bonnard, an archeologist, who began late in life to devote himse!f to 
the natural sciences. — Pud/isher’s Note. 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 243 


the village and the forest. It is a gabled house, the 
slate roof of which shines in the sun like the breast 
of a pigeon. The weather-cock on my roof has won 
for me more consideration in the country than all my 
works on history and philology. There is not an 
urchin in the village who does not know Monsieur 
Bonnard’s weather-vane. It is rusty, and squeaks 
shrilly when the breeze shifts. Sometimes it refuses 
to work at all, like Thérése, who now allows herself, 
though grumblingly, to be helped by a young peas- 
ant girl. The house is not large, but I am very com- 
fortable in it. My room has two windows, and the 
early sun pours into it. Above is the children’s 
room. Jeanne and Henry come to occupy it twice 
every year. 

Little Sylvestre had his cradle there. He was a 
pretty boy, but very pale. When he played on the 
grass, his mother would watch him with an anxious 
look, and every few minutes she would lay aside her 
sewing to take him on her lap. The poor little fellow 
did not like to go to sleep. He said that when he 
slept, he went far, very far away, where it was dark, 
and where he saw things that frightened him, and 
that he did not want to see any more. 

Then his mother would call me, and I would sit 
down by his cradle. He would take one of my 
fingers in his little hot, dry hand, and say to me, — 

“Godfather, you must tell me a story.” 

I would tell him all sorts of stories, to which he 
would listen with a serious face. He was interested 
in them all, but one in particular filled him wonder 
and delight. It was “The Blue Bird.” When I 


244 THE CRIME OF 


had finished, he would say, “Again! Again!” and 
I would begin once more; and after a while his pale 
little face, in which the veins stood out clearly, would 
fall back on the pillow. 

To all our questions the doctor replied, — 

“There is nothing much the matter with him!” 

No, there was nothing much the matter with little 
Sylvestre. One evening, a year ago, his father called 
me. 

‘“Come,” said he; “our little one is worse.” 

I stepped to the cradle, by the side of which the 
mother stood motionless, held there by every fibre 
of her being. 

Little Sylvestre slowly turned his eyes to me; 
their pupils had rolled up under his lids, and would 
never come down again. 

*‘ Godfather,” said he, “you need not tell me any 
more stories.” 

No, it was not necessary to tell him any more 
stories! 

U Poor Jeanne! poor mother! 

7 € I am too old to feel very deeply, but the death of 
a 

¥ 


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child is a strangely sad mystery. 

To-day the father and the mother have come 
back to spend six weeks under the old man’s roof. 
They are just returning from the forest, arm in arm. 
Jeanne is closely wrapped in her black shawl, and 
Henry wears a band on his straw hat; but they are 
both bright with youth, and they smile gently at 
each other. They smile at the earth which bears 
them, at the air which plays about them, at the light 
which each sees shining in the other’s eyes. I wave 


SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 245 


my handkerchief to them from my window, and they 
smile at the poor old man! 

Jeanne comes lightly up the stairs, kisses me, and 
whispers something in my ear, which I guess at 
rather than hear. And I answer, “God bless you, 
Jeanne, you and your husband, and your most 
distant posterity. £¢ nunc dimittis servum tuum, 





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